Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/147

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sound was on the summer-air, And yet it was not music. The sweet birds Went warbling wildly forth from grove and dell Their thrilling harmonies, yet this low tone Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul There was a deep response, troubling the fount Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew The tomb's prelusive melody. I turned, And sought the house of mourning. Ah, pale friend ! Who speak'st not—look'st not—dost not give the hand, Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast, Once its own throne? Thou silent, changeless one, The seal is on thy virtues now no more, Like ours to tremble in temptation's hour, Perchance, to fall. Fear hath no longer power To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee. How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace! Friend!—Friend!—I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast been The sharer of my sympathies, the soul That prompted me to good, the hand that shed Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes Where we have dwelt together—walking on In friendship's holy concord, I am now But a divided being. Who is left To love, as thou hast loved?