Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/64

64

But chiefly, when the dying saint On his last couch reclines, When lights of earth are dim and faint Thy brightest lustre shines.

Thy smile is glorious to his eye, Thy brow like seraph fair, Thou point'st his journey to the sky But may'st not follow there.

Thy friendship soften'd mortal ill Thy worth was drawn from wo,— So thou wert nourish'd by a rill Which there can never flow.

Well pleased wert thou to cheer the toil, Beguile the short pursuit. And sow bright seeds in sorrow's soil That man might reap the fruit.

But when his beating pulse declines, Thy own is chill and dead, And ere his resurrection shines, Thy taper's ray hath fled.

Yet one there is, who braves the blast, When Hope oblivious sleeps, Whose glance averted, loves the past, Whose hand its record keeps.

She gilds no fairy scenes for youth, No flight with fancy takes, But in the holy cell of truth Her meek pavilion makes.