Lydia H. Sigourney (1791–1865)

RISE from the dells where ye first were born,

From the tangled beds of the weed and thorn,

Rise! for the dews of the morn are bright,

And haste away with your brows of light.—

—Should the green-house patricians with gathering frown,

On your plebeian vestures look haughtily down,

Shrink not,—for His finger your heads hath bow’d,

Who heeds the lowly and humbles the proud.—

—The tardy spring, and the frosty sky,

Have meted your robes with a miser’s eye,

And check’d the blush of your blossoms free,—

With a gentler friend your home shall be;

To a kinder ear you may tell your tale

Of the zephyr’s kiss and the scented vale;—

Ye are charm’d! ye are charm’d! and your fragrant sigh

Is health to the bosom on which ye die.