Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/202

202 As tearful Israel turn'd to Zion's hill, The city of her joy. Oft have I set Within thine hallow'd mould, fair, tender plants, The stainless rose, and constant evergreen, And bless'd, and bade them cheer her bed,—whose life Was Virtue's fragrance,—breathing toward its God. Yet they have wither'd,—one by one have fallen Beneath keen skies:—so didst thou teach my heart,— (Too heedless then!)—that every earthly flower Bore in its breast, the seeds of wan decay, And soon must perish.—Still shall thy pure life, Thy peaceful death,—thy seraph smile of bliss, Such as they glow upon my nightly dream, Deep in my soul's most cherish'd tablet dwell. —When gratitude her genial warmth forgets In death's embrace,—when the last debt I pay To earth, my mother,—Oh! that I might be Remember'd but by one fond, sorrowing heart As I remember thee. —Thou too,—dear friend Of early sports, and studies more beloved,— 'Tis meet that I should linger near thy couch Communing with my spirit.—All our hours Of blissful intercourse,—when unrobed thought Sprang to its fellow in each other's breast,— All our congenial hopes,—our sister joys When rambling o'er the mountain's craggy brow, Or winning from its cell the pencill'd flower, We spake of Nature's God,—dost thou recall Their image in the climes of love serene? —Dwells Friendship's warmth in angel bosoms pure? When near the foaming rush of angry floods,