Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/58

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Sister,—is it so? And shall I see Thy face on earth no more? And didst thou breathe The last sad pang of agonizing life Upon a stranger's pillow? No kind hand, Of parent or of sister, near to press Thy throbbing temples, when the shuddering dew Stood thick upon them? And they say my name Hung on thy lips 'mid the chill, parting strife. Ah!—those were hallowed memories that could stir Thy bosom thus in death. The tender song Of cradle-nurture,—the low, lisping prayer, Learned at our mother's knee,—the childish sport, The gift divided, and the parted cake— Our walk to school amid the dewy grass— Our sweet flower-gatherings,—all those cloudless hours Together shared, did wake a love so strong That Time must yield it to Eternity For its full crown. Would it had been my lot But with one weeping prayer to gird thy heart For its last conflict. Would that I had seen That peaceful smile which Death did leave thy clay, After his conquest o'er it. But the turf On thy lone grave was trodden—while I deemed Thee meekly musing o'er the classic page, Loving and loved amid the studious band As erst I left thee.