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92 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Yet oft doth twilight's musing hour thy graceful form restore,
And morning breathe the music-tone, like Memnon's harp of yore.

The simple cap that deck'd thy brow is still to Memory dear,
Her echoes keep thy cherish'd song that lull'd my infant ear ;
The book, from which my lisping tongue was by thy kindness taught,
Gleams forth, with all its letter'd lines, still fresh with hues of thought.

The flowers, the dear familiar flowers, that in thy garden grew,
From which thy mantel-vase was fill'd - methinks, they breathe anew ;
Again, the whispering lily bends, and ope those lips of rose
As if some message of thy love, they linger'd to disclose.

'Tis true, that more than fourscore years had bow'd thy beauty low,
And mingled, with thy cup of life, full many a dreg of woe,
But yet thou hadst a better charm than youthful bloom hath found,
A balm within thy chasten'd heart, to heal another's wound.

Remember thee? Remember thee? though with the blest on high
Thou hast a mansion of delight, unseen by mortal eye,
Comes not thy wing to visit me, in the deep watch of night,
When visions of unutter'd things do make my sleep so bright?

I feel thy love within my breast, it nerves me strong and high,
As cheers the wanderer o'er the deep the pole-star in the sky,
And when my weary spirit quails, or friendship's smile is cold,
I feel thine arm around me thrown, as oft it was of old.

Remember thee! Remember thee! while flows this purple tide,
I'll keep thy precepts in my heart, thy pattern for my guide,
And, when life's little journey ends, and light forsakes my eye, 
Come, hovering o'er my bed of pain, and teach me how to die.


LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 93

THE LITTLE HAND.

THOU wak'st, my baby boy, from sleep,
  And through its silken fringe
Thine eye, like violet, pure and deep,
  Gleams forth with azure tinge.

With what a smile of gladness meek
  Thy radiant brow is drest,
While fondly to a mother's cheek
  Thy lip and hand are prest!

That little hand! what prescient wit
  Its history may discern,
When time its tiny bones hath knit
  With manhood's sinews stern?

The artist's pencil shall it guide?
  Or spread the adventurous sail?
Or guide the plough with rustic pride,
  And ply the sounding flail?

Through music's labyrinthine maze,
  With dexterous ardour rove,
And weave those tender, tuneful lays
  That beauty wins from love?

Old Coke's or Blackstone's mighty tome
  With patient toil turn o'er?
Or trim the lamp in classic dome,
  Till midnight's watch be o'er?

Well skilled, the pulse of sickness press?
  Or such high honour gain
As, o'er the pulpit raised, to bless
  A pious listening train?

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 10:03:41