Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/37

36 Say, is there aught Like the tried friendship of the sacred dead? It cannot hide its face, it changeth not, Grieves not, suspects not, may not fleet away, For as a seal upon the melted heart Tis set forever.—Sure 'tis weak to mourn Though thorns are at the bosom, or the blasts Of this bleak world beat harshly, if there come Such angel-visitants at even-tide, Or midnight's holy hush, to cleanse away The stains which day hath gathered, and with touch Pure and ethereal to sublimate The erring spirit.