Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/241

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Yet who o'er Beauty's form can hang Nor think how future years May bring stern Sorrow's speechless pang, Or Disappointment's tears, Unceasing toil, unpitied care, Cold treachery's serpent moan, Ills that the tender heart must bear, Unanswering and alone.

But as the frail and fragrant flower, Crushed by the sweeping blast, Doth even in death an essence pour, The sweetest, and the last, So woman's deep, enduring love, Which nothing can appal, Her steadfast faith, that looks above For rest, can conquer all.