Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/127

126 In supplication, that the dead might live. He rose, and looked upon the child. His cheek Of marble meekly on the pillow lay, While round his polished forehead, the bright curls Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept Beauty and innocence in Death's embrace, It seemed a mournful thing to waken them. Another prayer arose—and he, whose faith Had power o'er Nature's elements, to seal The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning's dart, And soon, from death escaping, was to soar On car of flame up to the throne of God, Long, long, with labouring breast, and lifted eyes, Solicited in anguish. On the dead Once more the prophet gazed. A rigor seemed To settle on those features, and the hand, In its immovable coldness, told how firm Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave. The awful seer laid down his humbled lip Low to the earth, and his whole being seemed With concentrated agony to pour Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife Of intercession. Who shall dare to set Limits to prayer, if it hath entered heaven, And won a spirit down to its dense robe Of earth again? Look! look upon the boy! There was a trembling of the parted lip, A sob—a shiver—from the half-sealed eye A flash like morning—and the soul came back To its frail tenement. The prophet raised The renovated child, and on that breast Which gave the life-stream of its infancy Laid the fair head once more If ye would know Aught of that wildering trance of ecstacy,