Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/200

Rh

may'st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse, To bind those clustering tresses, or to press The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck To prop her weakness. That low, whispered tone No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye Speaks with its tender glance of all thy care, By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip With the cool water-drop—and guide the breeze That fragrant through her flowers comes travelling on, Freshly to lift the poor heart's broken valve, Which gasping waits its doom. Mother! thy lot Hath been a holy one; upon thy breast To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom, Refresh its languor with the rain of Heaven, And give it back to God. The hour is come. Thy sleepless night-watch o'er her infancy Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang, But what the full fount of maternal love Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands Which memory from her precious casket strews.