Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/208

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that death was terrible. I've seen His ministry in the distorted brow, The glazing eye, the struggle and the groan, With which the heart-strings break. Yet here was one Whose summoned breath went forth as peacefully As folds the spent rose when the day is done. Still life to her was dear, for with strong root That charity whose fruit is happiness Did grow and blossom in her, and the light Of her own cheerful spirit flowing out, Tinged earth's brief rain-drops with the bow of Heaven. Time had respected her, had spared her brow Its beauty, and her heart the unchilled warmth Of those affections, gentle and sublime Which make the fireside holy. Hand in hand With those her care had nurtured, and who joyed. To pay their debt of gratitude, she past, Benign and graceful, down the vale of age, Wrapped up in tender love. Without a sigh, A change of feature, or a shaded smile, She gave her hand to the stern messenger, And as a glad child seeks its Father's house, Went home. She in her Saviour's ranks had done A veteran's service, and with Polycarp Might say to Death, "For more than fourscore years He was my Lord—shall I deny him now?" No! No! Thou could'st not turn away from him