Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/71

70 Into thy breast, or the storm-spirit dashed Thy salt tears to the sky? What hand hath reared Upon thy ever-heaving pedestal One monumental fane to those who sleep Within thy cloistered chambers? Myriads there, Wrapped in the tangled sea-fan's gorgeous shroud, On thy pearl pavement find their sepulchre. Earth strictly questioned for these absent ones, Her beautiful, her brave, her innocent; But thou, in thy unyielding silence gave No tidings of them, and despotic bade Beauty and Death, like rival kings, divide Thy secret realm. Mysterious Deep, farewell! I turn from thy companionship. But lo, Thy voice doth follow me. 'Mid lonely bower, Or twilight dream, or wakeful couch, I hear That solemn, and reverberated hymn From thy deep organ which doth speak God's praise In thunder, night and day. Still by my side Even as a dim seen spirit deign to walk Prompter of holy thought, and type of Him, Sleepless, immutable, omnipotent.