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Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
“He heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.” “They toil for heirs, they know not who, And straight are seen no more.” His brow was worn with care. Too deep a thought Had settled there, for lingering sleep to shed Its poppy dew unblamed. He said of mirth, And every social joy,—“They profit not,” For he had sold his life to gather gain, And rear a palace for his only son, That crowds might envy. To his wearied heart Amid its slavery, still he said, “Plod on! 'Tis for my son.”—But lo!—an icy grasp O'ermastered him at once, and down he lay Reluctant and unmourned. The heir roamed wide In distant lands, with light and lavish haste Scattering his spoils. In the ancestral halls, Are guests, and banquet-board, and music-strain, But not for him.—They bear his name no more; And on his bloated features are the stamp,
Of libertine and exile. In the wards Of foreign hospitals, with parching lip, He feels the fever-thirst, and none are near Of all the many servants of his sire, To give him water. On his tongue there lurks The drunkard's mutter'd curse, mixed with no word Of grateful memory for that father's care, Who toiled so late and rose ere dawn of day To toil for him the waster, and enrich Heirs, all unknown. A mother, strange to say, Repressed the claims of pity, and withheld The surplus of her stewardship from God. The poor, pale sempstress, with her trembling nerves, And timid voice, perceived the scanty dole Narrowed and grudged and tardily bestowed, And wept, despairing, o'er her lonely crust. The beggar came not twice to that proud door, Remembering the refusal, couch'd in words Scornful and sharp. The mission-vessel spread Its snowy wings, and sought a heathen clime Without her aid. And so the yearly gold Swell'd in its hoard; and to herself she said, “'Tis for my daughter's use, when I am gone:” Cheating her vexed soul with empty names Of fond maternal duty,—veil too thin To hide her nature from the eye of Heaven.
Oh lady! in the damp and mouldering tomb, Is there no loop-hole, whence a restless ghost Might scan thy lofty mansion? See! behold! Who sitteth on thy daughter's rich divan, And in her costly mirrors idly looks? Who strews the flowers that deck'd her gay parterre, And revels in her fruits? A stranger bride Calls it her home.—Thy daughter is not there. Her bed is in the clay—and by her side The babe, whose fleeting life with hers was bought: While he, who briefly on his finger wore The circlet of her love, forgetteth her. Yet for that daughter didst thou grind the poor, And seal thine ear against the Pagan's moan; Calling it prudence, and a just regard To thine own offspring. 'Twas a specious lure! Oh, mother, did it shut thy soul from Heaven?
Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. |