44
MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
Bad'st thou yon breathing statue strive
Her faultless form to show?
But rushing on in reckless mirth,
That empire answered,—No.
Then lo!—a still small voice arose
Amid that silence drear,
Such voice as from the cradle bed
Doth charm the mother's ear,
And then, methought, two clasping hands
Were from that marble thrust,
And strange their living freshness gleam'd
Amid that sculptur'd dust.
Empress! the filial blossoms nurs'd
Within thy bosom's fold,
Surviv'd the wreath that traitor Love
To heartless glory sold,—
Those hands thy monument have rear'd
Where pausing pilgrims come;
That voice thy mournful requiem pour'd
Though all the world was dumb.
