Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/269

268

guides, in sorrow weeping, O'er your first-born's smitten bloom, Or fond memory's vigil keeping Where the fresh turf marks her tomb.

Ye no more shall see her bearing Pangs that woke the dove-like moan, Still for your affliction caring, Though forgetful of her own.

Ere the bitter cup she tasted, Which the hand of care doth bring— Ere the glittering pearls were wasted, From glad childhood's fairy string,

Ere one chain of hope had rusted— Ere one wreath of joy was dead— To the Saviour, whom she trusted, Strong in faith, her spirit fled.

Gone—where no dark sin is cherished, Where nor woes, nor fears invade, Gone—ere youth's first flower had perished. To a youth that ne'er can fade.