Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/36

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ye had not glared on me so soon, Officious lamps!—that gild the parlour scene With such oppressive brightness.—They were here Whose garments like the tissue of our dreams Steal o'er the eye, and win it from the world. They smiled on me so sweetly, and their hands Clasped mine, and their calm presence wooed away The throb of grief so tenderly,—I would That twilight to the purple peep of dawn Had kindly lingered.— She, who nearest hung, Pressing my head to her meek, matron breast, Was one who lulled me to my cradle sleep, With such blest melodies as memory pours Fresh from her echo-harp, when the fond heart Asks for its buried joys.—Slow years have sown Rank rooted herbage o'er her lowly couch Since she arose to chant that endless song Which hath no dissonance.— Another form Sat at her feet, whose brow was bright with bloom When the cold grave shut o'er it.—It hath left Its image every where, upon my books, My bower of musing, and my page of thought, And the lone altar of the secret soul.— Would that those lips had spoken!—yet I hear Always their ring-dove murmuring, when I tread Our wonted shady haunts.—