Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/102

Rh Which on its upward track Thus from Heaven's threshold bright, the spirit throweth back. But with remembered skill The hand interprets still, Though speech with broken lyre is faithless to the will, Those poor, pale fingers weave with majestic art, One last, lone thrilling word to echo through the heart.

"Mother." Oh! yet a moment stay, Friend!—Friend!—what would'st thou say? What strong emotion with that word doth twine! She, whose soft hand did dry thine infant tear, Hovereth she now, with love divine Thy dying pillow near? And is the import of thy sign That she is here? Faithful to thine extremest need Descends she from her blissful sphere, With the soft welcome of an angel's reed Thy passage through the shadowy vale to cheer?

Or doth affection's root So to earth's soil adhere— That thou, in fond pursuit, Still turn'st to idols dear? Drawest thou the curtain from a cherished scene Once more with yearning to survey The little student over his book serene, The glad one at his play, The blooming babe so lately on thy breast Cradled to rest— Those three fair boys, Lingers thy soul with them, even from heaven's perfect joys? Say—wouldst thou teach us thus, how strong a mother's tie? That when all others fade away, Stricken down in mouldering clay,