Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/232

Rh Until she bade them droop and pass away With him she mourned. And so, with widowed heart She parted out her pittance to the poor, Sat by the bed of sickness, dried the tear Of the forgotten weeper, and did robe Herself in mercy, like the bride of Heaven. Years past away, and still she seemed unchanged, The principle of beauty hath no age, It looketh forth, even though the eye be dim, The forehead frost-crowned, yea, it looketh forth, Wherever there doth dwell a tender soul, That in its chastened cheerfulness would shed Sweet, charity on all whom God hath made. Years past away, and 'mid her holy toils The hermit-heart found rest. Each night it seemed, When to her lonely, prayerful couch she came, As if an angel folded his pure wing Around her breast, inspiring it to hold A saint's endurance. Of her spirit's grief She never spake. But as the flush of health Receded from her cheek, her patient eye Gathered new lustre, and the mighty wing Of that supporting angel seemed to gird Closer her languid bosom, while in dreams A tuneful tone, like his who slumbered deep Amid his country's dead, told her of climes Where vows are never sundered. One mild eve, When on the foreheads of the sleeping flowers The loving spring-dews hung their diamond wreaths, She from her casket drew a raven curl, Which once had clustered round her lost one's brow, And prest it to her lips and laid it down Upon her bible, while she knelt to pour The nightly incense of a stricken heart