Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/38

38 It's mournful modulation seem'd to breathe A soul of sorrow o'er the slumbering air, With its deep-drawn and linked melody Enforcing tears. But at the words, sublime, Of Inspiration,—"though we seem to sleep, As for a moment,—we shall rise, be changed, And in the twinkling of an eye put on The victor robe of immortality,"— Quick, at the warmth of so divine a faith Vanish'd those tears,—as fleets the transient dew From the morn's eye. There lay the form of one Who many a year had, in that hallowed place, Constant as came the day which God had bless'd, Appeared to pay his vows.—Yes,—there he rose, With reverend front,—and strong, majestic frame, Where now as powerless as the smitten babe, He waits for other hands to bear him forth. Firm at each post of piety and peace Where Christ hath bade his servants watch, he stood, Even till the gather'd shades of evening blanch'd His shuddering temples with unmelting frost. He had the praise of men who knew to prize The noiseless tenor of an upright course;— And he had drank of sorrow.—Those who shed The holy charities around his home, Had long been tenants of the voiceless tomb; And from that home, and those bright-shadowing trees. The lingering solace of his hermit hours, He by a freak of winged wealth was driven. But now his head on that cold pillow rests, Where sleepless anguish dare not plant a thorn. No more his bruised heart pours strong incense forth