Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/123

                           And from each rising sun
         Till Night her balmy cup of silence poured,
         For him the paths of knowledge she explored,
                  Feeding his eager mind with seraph's bread,
Till intellectual light o'er his fair features spread.
                           But ah ! he bowed to die,
                           Strange darkness sealed his eye,
                  And there he lay, like marble in his shroud;
He, at whose infant might even trembling Love was proud.
         Yet she who bore him shrank not 'neath the rod,
         Laying her chastened soul low at the feet of God.
                           Now is her victory won,
                               Her strife of battle o'er,
She hath found her son—she hath found her son,
                           Where Death is a king no more.

                  She hath gone to see how bright doth shine
                  In eternity's sphere that lamp divine,
                  Which here 'mid the storms of earth severe
                  She tenderly nursed with a mother's fear:
                           Forgotten are all her toils,
                                    The pang hath left no trace,
                           When Memory hoardeth in Heaven its spoils
                                    These have no place.

                           Mothers! whose speechless care,
                                    Whose unrequited sigh,
                                    Weary arm and sleepless eye
Change the fresh rose-bud on the cheek to paleness and despair,
                  Look up! Look up to the bountiful sky,
Earth may not pay your debt, your record is on high.
                  Ye have gazed in doubt on the plants that drew
                  From your gentle hand their nightly dew—
                  Ye have given with trembling your morning kiss,
                  Ye have sown in pain—ye shall reap in bliss;