Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/144

                              And though his lip be mute,
Feeling the poverty of speech, to give
Fit answer to thee, still his pallid brow
And the deep agonizing prayer that loads
Midnight's dark wing to him the God of strength,
May satisfy thy question.
                                           Ye who mourn
Whene'er yon vacant cradle, or the robes
That decked the lost one's form, call back a tide
Of alienated joy, can ye not trust
Your treasure to His arms, whose changeless care
Passeth a mother's love? Can ye not hope,
When a few hasting years their course have run,
To go to him, though he no more on earth
Returns to you?
                             And when glad Faith doth catch
Some echo of celestial harmonies,
Archangels' praises, with the high response
Of cherubim, and seraphim, oh think—
Think that your babe is there.