Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

THE BROKEN VASE.

So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant Vase, Beneath my footsteps. 'Tis a pity, sure, That aught so beautiful, should find its fate, From careless fingers. Fain would I divine Thy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form, And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints Of varied hue, and gave the enamel'd robe, Deep-wrought with gold? Thou wert a costly gift. Perchance, a present to some fair young bride, Who 'mid her wedding-treasures nicely pack'd Thee in soft cotton, that the jarring wheel, O'er the rough road careering, might not mar Thy symmetry. Within her new abode, She proudly plac'd thee, rich with breathing flowers, And as the magic shell from ocean borne Doth hoard the murmur of its coral-caves, So thou didst tell her twilight reverie, tales Of her far home, and seem to breathe the tones

Of her young, sportive sisters. 'Tis in vain! No art may join those fragments, or cement Their countless chasms. And yet there's many a wreck Of costlier things, for which the wealth of Earth May yield no reparation. He, who hangs His all of happiness on beauty's smile, And, 'mid that dear illusion, treads on thorns, Heeding no wound, or climbs the rocky steep Unconscious of fatigue, hath oft-times mark'd A dying dolphin's brightness at his feet, And found it but the bubble of his hope, Disparting like the rainbow. They who run Ambition's race, and on their compeers tread With fever'd eagerness to grasp the goal, Beheld the envied prize, like waxen toy, Melt in the passion-struggle. He, who toils Till lonely midnight, o'er the waning lamp, Twining the cobweb of poetic thought, Or forging links from Learning's molten gold, Till his brain dazzles, and his eye turns dim, Then spreads his gatherings with a proud delight To the cold-bosom'd public, oft perceives Each to his "farm and merchandise" return

Regardless of his wisdom, or perchance Doth hear the hammer of harsh criticism, Grinding his ore to powder, finer far Than the light sand of Congo's yellow stream. —Yea, 'mid earth's passing pilgrims, many a one Of its new gained possessions, fondly proud, Doth, like the Patriarch, find his seven years' toil Paid with a poor deceit. Crush'd Vase, farewell. I thank thee for thy lesson. Thou hast warn'd That the heart's treasures be not rashly risk'd In earthen vessels, but in caskets stor'd, Above the wrecking ministry of Time.