Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/127

In supplication, that the dead might live.
He rose, and looked upon the child. His cheek
Of marble meekly on the pillow lay,
While round his polished forehead, the bright curls
Clustered redundantly. So sweetly slept
Beauty and innocence in Death's embrace,
It seemed a mournful thing to waken them.
Another prayer arose—and he, whose faith
Had power o'er Nature's elements, to seal
The dripping cloud, to wield the lightning's dart,
And soon, from death escaping, was to soar
On car of flame up to the throne of God,
Long, long, with labouring breast, and lifted eyes,
Solicited in anguish. On the dead
Once more the prophet gazed. A rigor seemed
To settle on those features, and the hand,
In its immovable coldness, told how firm
Was the dire grasp of the insatiate grave.
The awful seer laid down his humbled^[1] lip
Low to the earth, and his whole being seemed
With concentrated agony to pour
Forth in one agonizing, voiceless strife
Of intercession. Who shall dare to set
Limits to prayer, if it hath entered heaven,
And won a spirit down to its dense robe
Of earth again?
                           Look! look upon the boy!
There was a trembling of the parted lip,
A sob—a shiver—from the half-sealed eye
A flash like morning—and the soul came back
To its frail tenement.
                                     The prophet raised
The renovated child, and on that breast
Which gave the life-stream of its infancy
Laid the fair head once more
                                                  If ye would know
Aught of that wildering trance of ecstacy,

1. not humble, see errata