Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/37

Rh  Reminds him of that roseate brow,—now pale, And bloodless for his sake.—The evening star Restores those blissful walks,—when first he found That Heaven, as with a wreath of Eden's flowers, Had bound their sympathies.—The full-orb'd moon Reveals upon her silver page, those hours So exquisite to thought,—when speech was sighs; And new-born Love, like some fair infant roused From pictured dreams, mingled the timid tear With the soft certainty of waking bliss.— Perchance, close-wrapt in the still arms of night, The lover, when no prying eye is near, Draws from his bosom's cell, a shining tress, And presses to his lips; or o'er the brow Fresh from the pencil of the artist, hangs And thinks of her, whose prayer may never rise Without his name. Yet there 's a sex in hearts, One loves with strong and passionate embrace; The other trusts its all,—stakes life on love,— With deathless ardour clasps one idol-prop, And in its breaking,—breaks.

 

I saw a dark-robed train, who sadly bare A lifeless burden toward the house of God. I enter'd there,—for I had heard 'twas good To see the end of man. Then slowly woke The organ's dirge-like strain,—soft—solemn—sweet;— 