Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/195

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, gather to this burial-place, ye gay! Ye, of the sparkling eye, and frolic brow, I bid ye hither. She, who makes her bed This day, 'neath yon damp turf, with spring-flowers sown, Was one of you. Time had not laid his hand On tress or feature, stamping the dread lines Of chill decay, till Death had nought to do, Save that slight office which the passing gale Doth to the wasted taper. No, her cheek Shamed the young rose-bud; in her eye was light By gladness kindled; in her footsteps grace; Song on her lips; affections in her breast, Like soft doves nesting. Yet, from all she turned, All she forsook, unclasping her warm hand From Friendship's ardent pressure, with such smile As if she were the gainer. To lie down In this dark pit she cometh, dust to dust, Ashes to ashes, till the glorious morn Of resurrection. Wondering do you ask— Where is her blessedness! Go home, ye gay, Go to your secret chambers, and kneel down, And ask of God. Urge your request like him Who on the slight raft, 'mid the ocean's foam, Toileth for life. And when ye win a hope That the world gives not, and a faith divine, Ye will no longer marvel how the friend So beautiful, so loved, so lured by all The pageantry on earth, could meekly find A blessedness in death.