 | Poems by Lydia H. Sigourney |  |
243
“WEEP NOT.”
“Weep not—he hath gone home that little one.”
Mullner.
Mullner.
Gone home! Gone home!—how many a prayer of love,
Breath'd out its ardour, to detain thee here,—
And Fancy's dream its spell of fondness wove
To make thee happy, as thou wert most dear.
Breath'd out its ardour, to detain thee here,—
And Fancy's dream its spell of fondness wove
To make thee happy, as thou wert most dear.
Tho' round thy lip the smile complacent play'd,
And joy enwrapp'd thee in her robe of light,—
Yet was it not the thought of home, that made
Thy brow so beautiful?—thine eye so bright?
And joy enwrapp'd thee in her robe of light,—
Yet was it not the thought of home, that made
Thy brow so beautiful?—thine eye so bright?
The thought of home! they deem'd it not, who knew
Thy dear delight, among the garden flowers,
Thy loving heart, to warm affection true,
And all the gladness of thine infant hours.
Thy dear delight, among the garden flowers,
Thy loving heart, to warm affection true,
And all the gladness of thine infant hours.
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Weep not:—'mid thornless flowers that never fade,
In bowers of bliss where raptures never cloy
Thou hast thy home, thy changeless mansion made,
Our transient visitant, our angel boy.
In bowers of bliss where raptures never cloy
Thou hast thy home, thy changeless mansion made,
Our transient visitant, our angel boy.
245
ON THE DEATH OF A FORMER PUPIL.
Nor long is seems, since she with childish browPondered her lessons,—in rich fields of thought
A ripe and ready student. Her clear mind,
Precocious, yet well-balanced,—her delight
In varied knowledge,—her melodious tone
Of elocution falling on the ear
Like some rare harp, on which the soul doth play,
Her sweet docility, 'twas mine to mark,—
And marking, love.
Then came the higher grades
Of woman's duty:—and the pure resolve,
The persevering goodness,—the warm growth
Of every household-charity,—the ties
That bind to earth, and yet prepare for heaven,
Were gently wreath'd amid the clustering fruits
Of ripened intellect.
But soon, alas!
In search of health, to distant scenes she turn'd,
A patient traveller, still, with wasted form,
246
From her lov'd home, where spread in fadeless, green,
The Elm, which cheer'd her sainted grandsire's gaze,
(Like Mamre's Oak, o'er Abraham's honoured head)
Far from the chamber, where her cradle rack'd,
And where she hop'd her couch of death might be
The Spoiler found her.
The long gasp was hers,
But the meek smile was her Redeemer's gift,
His victor token. And the bosom-friend
Took that bequest into his bursting heart,
As in the sleepless ministry of love,
He stood beside her, in that parting hour.
—See'st thou the desolate, on his return?—
Know'st thou the sadness of his lonely way?—
Deep silence, where the tender word had been,—
And at the midnight watch or trembling dawn,
The sullen echo of the hearse like wheel,
Avoiding every haunt, and pleasant bower
Where the dear invalid so late reclin'd,
Lest some light question of a stranger's tongue
Should harrow up the seal. Know'st thou the pang
When his reft home, first met his mournful view?
—What brings he to his children?—
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Who at the casement stands and weeps,—can tell,—
And he, who cannot tell,—that younger one,
Whose boundless loss steals like some strange eclipse
Over a joyous planet,—and the babe
Stretching its arms for her who comes no more.
Oh! if the blest in heaven, take note of earth,
Will not the mother's hovering spirit brood
O'er those fair boys?
It is not ours to say,—
We only know that if a christian's faith
Hath changeless promise of the life to come,
That heritage is hers. And so we lay
Her body in the tomb,—with praise to God
For her example,—and with prayer, to close
Our time of trial, in such trust serene.
248
THE SLEEPING INFANT.
Sweet infant, beautiful as light,
That on the snow drop's bosom glows,
When scap'd from wrathful winter's might,
It trembles through incumbent snows,
That on the snow drop's bosom glows,
When scap'd from wrathful winter's might,
It trembles through incumbent snows,
Amid thy cradle sleep we watch,
The varying thought that faintly gleams,
As tho' we fondly hop'd to catch
The angel-whisper of thy dreams.
The varying thought that faintly gleams,
As tho' we fondly hop'd to catch
The angel-whisper of thy dreams.
The angel-whisper. Tell us what
Is breath'd from that celestial clime.
Thou, nearer to its while-winged host
Than we who tread the thorns of time.
Is breath'd from that celestial clime.
Thou, nearer to its while-winged host
Than we who tread the thorns of time.
Thou canst not tell,—no words are thine,—
But the pure smile that lights thy brow
Is sure the language of the skies,—
Oh keep it still unchanged,—as now.
But the pure smile that lights thy brow
Is sure the language of the skies,—
Oh keep it still unchanged,—as now.
249
THE ORPHAN'S TRUST.
“When my father and my mother forsake me, thou the Lord will take me up.”—
David.
He, who around my infant steps,
A firm protection threw,
Whose prayers upon my head distill'd,
Like summer's holy dew,—
The staff hath fallen from his hand,
The mantle from his breast,
And underneath the church-yard mould
He takes a quiet rest.
A firm protection threw,
Whose prayers upon my head distill'd,
Like summer's holy dew,—
The staff hath fallen from his hand,
The mantle from his breast,
And underneath the church-yard mould
He takes a quiet rest.
And she, who at each cradle-moan,
At every childish fear,—
At every fleeting trace of pain
Stood, full of pity near;—
Who to her fondly-cherish'd child
Such deep affection bore,
She too, hath given the parting kiss,
And must return no more.
At every childish fear,—
At every fleeting trace of pain
Stood, full of pity near;—
Who to her fondly-cherish'd child
Such deep affection bore,
She too, hath given the parting kiss,
And must return no more.
250
And therefore, unto Thee I turn.
The never-changing Friend,
Whose years eternal cannot fail,
Whose mercies have no end;
Thro' all my pilgrim path below,
A Father deign to be,
And show that mother's tender love.
Who hath forsaken me.
The never-changing Friend,
Whose years eternal cannot fail,
Whose mercies have no end;
Thro' all my pilgrim path below,
A Father deign to be,
And show that mother's tender love.
Who hath forsaken me.
254
THE HOST OF GIDEON
Of the crystal streamlet taste,
Warriors, in your eager haste,
Here refresh your wearied line,
Ere in battle-strife ye join.
—Same upon the verdant strand
Scoop the water with their hand,
Others, on their knees supine,
For a deeper draught incline.
—But their chieftain standing by,
Mark'd them with my eagle eye,
And his heaving bosom fir'd,
As he spake the doom inspir'd.
Warriors, in your eager haste,
Here refresh your wearied line,
Ere in battle-strife ye join.
—Same upon the verdant strand
Scoop the water with their hand,
Others, on their knees supine,
For a deeper draught incline.
—But their chieftain standing by,
Mark'd them with my eagle eye,
And his heaving bosom fir'd,
As he spake the doom inspir'd.
“By the few, who scoop'd the wave
Shall our God, his Israel save,—
On,—ye chosen,—en with me,—
Yours the toil,—the victory.”
Shall our God, his Israel save,—
On,—ye chosen,—en with me,—
Yours the toil,—the victory.”
Small the band, yet on they prest,
Heaven's own courage in their breast,
And the strong and haughty foe,
Covering all the vale below,—
At their onset hold and high,
At their trumpet's fearful cry,
Prince, and chariot, turn'd and fled,
Helpless in that hour of dread.
Heaven's own courage in their breast,
And the strong and haughty foe,
Covering all the vale below,—
At their onset hold and high,
At their trumpet's fearful cry,
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Helpless in that hour of dread.
Soldiers of a glorious head,
While this leagur'd earth ye tread,
Lightly taste of Pleasure's wave,—
Bow not down like Passion's slave,
Lest, while others watchful stand,
Ye forget the promis'd land,
Lest, thy Leader's voice decree
Icy to them and shame to thee.
While this leagur'd earth ye tread,
Lightly taste of Pleasure's wave,—
Bow not down like Passion's slave,
Lest, while others watchful stand,
Ye forget the promis'd land,
Lest, thy Leader's voice decree
Icy to them and shame to thee.
| Poems by Lydia H. Sigourney | |