Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/36

36 The form,—the shadowy mantle,—the white sail,— Or when the echo of receding wheels Dies on the ear—(not like those wheels desired, When Sisera's mother from the lattice look'd, Eager the pompous chariot to behold)— Then the wild egress of imprison'd grief Defies control.—How sacred every spot That speaks of the departed,—every scene Of mutual intercourse,—and every seat Where he reclined!—The flower which he hath touch'd, The page, o'er which his eye enamour'd hung,— Robe, ring, or portrait press upon the heart Even as his representatives, to swell The tide of tender sorrow. Every word Which he hath utter'd,—every varying tone, And e'en each change of feature, are consign'd As gems to Memory's casket. Thither flies The lone heart in its poverty, as turns The miser to his hoard. —Yet he who goes, Hath but the lighter burden. The bright charms Of Nature's landscape,—graceful hills, and streams Sparkling and musical,—or crested wave, Or e'en the buffet of the wintry storm, The tossing ship,—the busy face of man,— And pride, that shames the weakness of the heart, Parry the shafts of anguish.—Still, at times, Deep sadness overwhelms the wanderer's soul; And the light tongue of those who idly strive To laugh away dejection,—is a probe To the fresh, quivering wound.—Perchance, the morn Whose kindling blushes tint the uncolour'd sky,