Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/268

Rh A stranger-matron, sicklied o'er and pale, And mournful for my vanished guide I sought. Then, many a group, in earnest converse flocked, Upon whose lips I knew the burial-clay Lay deep, for I had heard its hollow sound, In hoarse reverberation, "dust to dust!" They put a fair, young infant in my arms, And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed Like other infants. First with fear it shrank, And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread Its little hands in sportive laughter forth. So I awoke, and then those gentle forms Of faithful friendship and maternal love Did flit away, and life, with all its cares, Stood forth in strong reality. Sweet dream! And solemn, let me bear thee in my soul Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names, Sinless and passionless and pallid train! The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead! Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede, Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point Divides you from us, though we fondly look Through a long vista of imagined years, And in the dimness of far distance, seek To hide that tomb, whose crumbling verge we tread.