Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/233

232 At her Redeemer's feet. Grey morning came, And still her white cheek on that holy page Did calmly rest. Her's was that quiet sleep Which hath no wakening here. Fled from her brow Was every trace of pain, and in its stead Methought the angel who so long had been Her comforter, had left a farewell-gift, That smile which in the Court of Heaven doth beam.