(Lydia Huntley Sigourney)






Poetry


Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
   Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
   That freshend Beautys flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
   I heard a young girl sing,
Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For tis a holy thing.

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
   And on the heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
   Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flowd
   Forth from a broken string,
Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For tis a holy thing.

Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
   Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
   Home to a glorious sphere,
Yet still it sighd, even when was spread
   The waiting Angels wing,
Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For tis a holy thing.






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