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86 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. Seek thy Saviour's flock, To his blest fold going, Seek that smitten rock Whence our peace is flowing; Still should Love rejoice, Whatsoe'er betide thee, If that Shepherd's voice Evermore might guide thee. WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR A SICK FRIEND. RISE from the dells where ye first were born, From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn, Rise, for the dews of the morn are bright, And haste away, with your eyes of light. — Should the green-house patricians, with withering frown, On your simple vestments look haughtily down, Shrink not, for His finger your heads hath bow'd, Who heeds the lowly, and humbles the proud. — The tardy spring, and the chilling sky, Hath meted your robes with a miser's eye, And check'd the blush of your blossoms free; With a gentler friend your home shall be, To a kinder ear you may tell your tale Of the zephyr's kiss, and the scented vale: Ye are charm'd! ye are charm'd! and your fragrant sigh Is health to the bosom on which ye die. SOLITUDE. DEEP Solitude I sought. There was a dell Where woven shades shut out the eye of day, While, towering near, the rugged mountains made Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 87 Thither I went, And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount, For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife And fever of the world.— I thought to be There without witness.– But the violet's eye Look'd up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled, And the young pendent vine-flower kiss'd my cheek. There were glad voices too.– The garrulous brook, Untiring, to the patient pebbles told Its history.— Up came the singing breeze, And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake Responsive, every one.– Even busy life Woke in that dell. The dexterous spider threw From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare. The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel. To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee, While, from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird Sang to her nurslings. Yet I strangely thought To be alone and silent in thy realm, Spirit of life and love!— It might not be!— There is no solitude in thy domains, Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast He locks his joy, and shuts out others' grief. Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world Without a witness. Even the desert place Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams Are social and benevolent, and he Who holdeth converse in their language pure, Roaming among them at the cool of day, Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest, His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 09:55:45