Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/54

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upon his dying couch, his head Drooped o'er his mother's bosom,—like a bud Which, broken from its parent stalk, adheres By some attenuate fibre. His thin hand From 'neath the downy pillow drew a book And slowly prest it to his bloodless lip. "Mother, dear mother, see your birth-day gift, Fresh and unsoiled. Yet have I kept your word, And ere I slept each night, and every morn, Did read its pages with my humble prayer, Until this sickness came." He paused—for breath Came scantly, and with a toilsome strife. "Brother or sister have I none, or else I'd lay this Bible on their heart, and say, Come read it on my grave, among the flowers: So you who gave must take it back again, And love it for my sake" "My son!—My son!" Whispered the mourner in that tender tone Which woman in her sternest agony Commands, to soothe the pang of those she loves— "The soul!—the soul!—to whose charge yield you that!" "To God who gave it." So that trusting soul, With a slight shudder, and a lingering smile, Left the pale clay for its Creator's arms.