Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/130

Rh There is no farewell sigh Throughout that blessed clime, No mourning voice, nor severed tie, Nor change of hoary time.

Why plant the cypress near The pillow of the just? Why dew with murmuring tear Their calm and holy dust? Rear there the rose's pride, Bid the young myrtle bloom, Fit emblems of their joys who bide Beyond the insatiate tomb.

'Mid that celestial place Our soaring thoughts would glow, Even while we run this pilgrim-race Of weariness and woe; For who would shrink from death With sharp and icy hand, Or heed the pangs of shortening breath, To win that glorious land?