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

SUNSET ON THE ALLEGHANY

I was a pensive pilgrim at the foot Of the crown'd Alleghany, when he wrapp'd His purple mantle gloriously around, And took the homage of the princely hills, And ancient forests, as they bow'd them down, Each in his order of nobility. —And then in glorious pomp, the sun retir'd Behind that solemn shadow. And his train Of crimson, and of azure and of gold Went floating up the zenith, tint on tint, And ray on ray, till all the concave caught His parting benediction. But the glow Faded to twilight, and dim evening sank In deeper shade, and there that mountain stood In awful state, like dread ambassador 'Tween earth and heaven. Methought it frown'd severe Upon the world beneath, and lifted up The accusing forehead sternly toward the sky To witness 'gainst its sins. And is it meet

For thee, swoln out in cloud-capp'd pinnacle, To scorn thine own original, the dust That, feebly eddying on the angry winds, Doth sweep thy base? Say, is it meet for thee Robbing thyself in mystery, to impeach This nether sphere, from whence thy rocky root Draws depth and nutriment? But lo! a star, The first meek herald of advancing night, Doth peer above thy summit, as some babe Might gaze with brow of timid innocence Over a giant's shoulder. Hail, lone star! Thou friendly watcher o'er an erring world, Thine uncondemning glance doth aptly teach Of that untiring mercy, which vouchsafes Thee light, and man salvation. Not to mark And treasure up his follies, or recount Their secret record in the court of Heaven, Thou com'st. Methinks, thy tenderness would shroud With trembling mantle, his infirmities. The purest natures are most pitiful. But they who feel corruption strong within, Do launch their darts most fiercely at the trace Of their own image, in another's breast. —So the wild bull, that in some mirror spies His own mad visage, furiously destroys The frail reflector. But thou, stainless star!

Shalt stand a watchman on Creation's walls,While race on race, their little circles mark,And slumber in the tomb. Still point to all,Who through this evening scene may wander on,And from yon mountain's cold magnificenceTurn to thy milder beauty, point to all,The eternal love that nightly sends thee forth,A silent teacher of its boundless lore.