Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/220

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They dread no storm that lowers, No perish'd joys bewail, They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, Nor drink of streams that fail, There is no tear-drop in their eye, No change upon their brow, The placid bosom heaves no sigh, Though all earth's idols bow.

Who are so greatly blest?— From whom hath sorrow fled?— Who share such deep, unbroken rest While all things toil?The dead! The holy dead!—why weep ye so    Above the sable bier?— Thrice blessed!—they have done with wo, The living claim the tear.

Go to their sleeping bowers, Deck their low couch of clay With early spring's uncolour'd flowers, And when they fade away, Think of the amaranthine wreath The bright bowers never dim, And tell me why thou fly'st from death Or hid'st thy friends from him?—