Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/144

Rh And though his lip be mute, Feeling the poverty of speech, to give Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow And the deep agonizing prayer that loads Midnight's dark wing to him the God of strength, May satisfy thy question. Ye who mourn Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide Of alienated joy, can ye not trust Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope, When a few hasting years their course have run, To go to him, though he no more on earth Returns to you? And when glad Faith doth catch Some echo of celestial harmonies, Archangels' praises, with the high response Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think— Think that your babe is there.