Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/206

206  The cradled babe,—gay youth,—and white-lock'd sire That soon to this forgotten cell shall fleet The shadow of their days.—Earth's most adored Feel not upon their lifeless breasts the tear Fast trickling o'er their grave;—nor does the clay Unnamed,—unchronicled,—less sweetly sleep Within its narrow house.—For all her sons, With mournful sigh of hollow-breathing winds, Soft vernal tears,—and drooping wintry boughs, Impartial Nature mourns. —Alas! how vain The pride that lurks in gorgeous sepulchres,— The pyramid,—the stain'd sarcophagus, The tomb columnar. Still there is a life That in our ashes lives,—a care that wakes Around our mouldering bed,—and sweet it were To think that o'er our pulseless hearts should rise In hallow'd characters that Saviour's name In whom we had believed,—and that the pen Of truth might add—"Write!—blessed are the dead Who die in Him."

 

Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening star To bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car, Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild, To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee, Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.— 