Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/194

In foreign climes the yoke I bore,
    Stern Slavery's lot I knew,
Heaven heard: and toward my native shore,
    My parents' home, I drew.
Where was my hoary sire? They told
    How soon his race was run,
And how he sought his pillow cold,
    Lamenting for his son.

Shuddering I turned me toward the cot,
    Which in my crime I left,
There was my widowed mother's lot
    Of sight and joy bereft.
But who was bending o'er her bed,
    With voice like pity's dove?
Those were the eyes whose glance I fled—
    That was my own true love.

The thraldom of my sin was broke,
    I knelt me by her side,
The priest the hallowed words hath spoke,
    And blest her as my bride.
My step, my blinded mother hails,
    I toil with spirit free,
And only in my fireside tales
    Recal the treacherous sea.