Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/132

Slow Evening veiled yon rifled bower,
    An infant group are there,
Why doth no mother mark the hour
    To hear their murmured prayer?
And why doth grief's unwonted tide
    O'erflow their wondering eye?
They mourn to think their angel-guide
    Should turn from them, and die.

Dear, beauteous babes! On you the morn
    Fresh beams of hope shall pour,
Ye know not from your arms is torn
    What earth can ne'er restore:
Yet one is near, whose widowed breast,
    Whose brow, stern Sorrow's prey,
In lines too strong for speech, attest
    What Death hath borne away.

Love yields the grave its idol-trust,
    While the rent heart-strings bleed,
But Faith, whose pinion scorns the dust,
    Blames not the Spoiler's deed;
A new and tuneful lyre she hears,
    Where joys forever bloom,
And bids us through our blinding tears
    Write blessed on the tomb.