Poems Sigourney 1827/On reading the Life of Quincy, by his Son
ON READING THE LIFE OF QUINCY, BY HIS SON.
Behold they burst their tombs!—They start to life!—
The Chiefs of other days, who nobly ranged
Around their infant country,—prompt to guard
Her serpent-haunted cradle.—Yes! they rise
From the red battle-sods, from ocean's breast,
And from the student's cell, whose midnight lamp
Fed on the oil of life,—they come to wake
Our lingering gratitude.—
And one I mark
Amid that band, whose brief and bright career,
Bold Sparta in her better days had claim'd
With stern and lofty joy.—Ask ye what thoughts
Convulsed his soul,—when his dear, native shores
Throng'd with the imagery of lost delight
Gleam'd on his darkening eye,—while the hoarse wave
Utter'd his death-dirge,—and no hand of love
Might yield its tender, trembling ministry?—
A prayer was there, for her who ruled his heart,—
And for his babes that thrilling agony
Which none but parents feel.—Yet deeper grief
Still rankled there,—his country's wrongs and woes
Clung to the riven heart-string,—for he knew
Whose voice had sworn to be the widow's stay
And orphan's refuge;—so the patriot sigh
Heaved in that dying bosom,—when the tear
Of husband and of father was exhaled.—
—Flock'd there around his couch in soothing dreams
Mid that last agony, no cherish'd form
Of kindred or of friend?—Came not his Sire
Thither with hoary temples, bending low
In speechless sorrow,—Hancock, firm of soul,—
Great Adams, dauntless in the righteous cause.—
Or Otis,—whose electric eloquence
Was like the ethereal flash that quench'd its spire
Deep in his bosom?—Breathed not Warren's voice
In fervent whisper to that parting soul,
"Wait,—wait my brother!"—while he proudly rush'd
On with a martyr's spirit to the strife
Of young Thermopylæ?—
In vain! In vain!—
That awful hour had come which heeds no prayer
Of fond companionship.—Death's angel spake
Above the turmoil of the boisterous deep,
And warn'd the patriot hence.—
—With swimming glance,
Like him who erst from Pisgah's cliff descried
The unenter'd land of promise,—he survey'd
That emerald shore where slept in hallow'd graves
His ancestors, where rose in beauteous strength
The city of his joy,—crown'd by that mount
Where new-born Liberty essay'd to tread
The fearful wine-press,—laving her firm foot
In her sons' blood, to bless a future age.—
—The scene receded,—and he saw where Peace
Her seraph wing unfolded,—while the breath
Of everlasting melody pour'd forth
A welcome to the soul,—nor could he mourn
Exchange so blest,—but sought that brighter sphere.