Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/268

A stranger-matron, sicklied o'er and pale,
And mournful for my vanished guide I sought.
    Then, many a group, in earnest converse flocked,
Upon whose lips I knew the burial-clay
Lay deep, for I had heard its hollow sound,
In hoarse reverberation, "dust to dust!"
    They put a fair, young infant in my arms,
And that was of the dead. Yet still it seemed
Like other infants. First with fear it shrank,
And then in changeful gladness smiled, and spread
Its little hands in sportive laughter forth.
So I awoke, and then those gentle forms
Of faithful friendship and maternal love
Did flit away, and life, with all its cares,
Stood forth in strong reality.
                                                Sweet dream!
And solemn, let me bear thee in my soul
Throughout the live-long day, to subjugate
My earth-born hope. I bow me at your names,
Sinless and passionless and pallid train!
The seal of truth is on your breasts, ye dead!
Ye may not swerve, nor from your vows recede,
Nor of your faith make shipwreck. Scarce a point
Divides you from us, though we fondly look
Through a long vista of imagined years,
And in the dimness of far distance, seek
To hide that tomb, whose crumbling verge we tread.