Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/47

Yet hath bold science in thy sterile bed
    Struck a deep root, and though wild blasts recoil,
The arts their winged and feathery seeds have spread
    For hardened hands embrowned with peasant toil
To pluck their delicate flowers; and while the soil
    Their plough hath broken, some the Muse have hailed,
Smit with her love 'mid poverty's turmoil,
    And like the seer by angel-might assailed
Wrestled till break of day, and then like him prevailed.

Yet humbler virtues throw their guard around
    Thy rocky coast, and 'mid the autumn leaves
That falling rustle with a solemn sound,
    His magic spell a hidden spirit weaves,
Nursed 'neath the peaceful shade of cottage-eaves,
    By voice of sabbath-bell from hallowed dome,
And breath of household prayer which Heaven receives,
    It binds around the heart of those who roam
The patriot's stainless shields, the sacred love of home.

The love of home!—that plant of fearless birth,
    From arid Afric's burning soil it springs,
'Mid icy Labrador's uncultured earth,
    Or tropic Asia, where the serpent stings;
To naked hordes it gives the wealth of kings,
    Though lava bursts, or earthquakes threaten loud,
Still to its bed that plant undaunted clings,
    Makes the child glad, the toiling father proud,
And decks with Eden's wreath the white haired grandsire's shroud.