Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/28

Rh Music from my ear hath fled, Yet still a sweet tone lingereth there, The blessing that my mother shed Upon my evening prayer. Dim is my wasted eye To all that beauty brings, The brow of grace,—the form of symmetry Are half-forgotten things;— Yet one bright hue is vivid still, A mother's holy smile that soothed my sharpest ill.

Memory, with traitor-tread Methinks, doth steal away Treasures that the mind had laid Up for a wintry day:— Images of sacred power, Cherished deep in passion's hour, Faintly now my bosom stir, Good and evil like a dream Half obscured and shadowy seem, Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, Yea,—it remembereth her, Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre.