Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/21

Rh And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring, Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers. And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came With movements fashion'd to the deep-toned bell:— She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, And tears of those who at her side were nursed By the same mother. Ah! and one was there, Who, ere the fading of the summer rose, Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But Death Arose between them. The pale lover watch'd So close her journey through the shadowy vale, That almost to his heart, the ice of death Enter'd from hers. There was a brilliant flush Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye Pour'd such unearthly light, that hope would hang Even on the archer's arrow, while it dropp'd Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil'd For that slight breath which held her from the tomb, Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun Marks for his own, on some cool mountain's breast, Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. Oft o'er the musings of her silent couch, Came visions of that matron form which bent With nursing tenderness, to sooth and bless Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved The sainted mother, would redeem the child. Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace So dove-like, settling o'er a soul that loved Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile With which the allurements of a world so dear