Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/102

                    Which on its upward track
Thus from Heaven's threshold bright, the spirit throweth back.
                    But with remembered skill
                        The hand interprets still,
        Though speech with broken lyre is faithless to the will,
    Those poor, pale fingers weave with majestic art,
    One last, lone thrilling word to echo through the heart.

                                "Mother."
                Oh! yet a moment stay,
                Friend!—Friend!—what would'st thou say?
            What strong emotion with that word doth twine!
                She, whose soft hand did dry thine infant tear,
                    Hovereth she now, with love divine
                        Thy dying pillow near?
                    And is the import of thy sign
                            That she is here?
                Faithful to thine extremest need
            Descends she from her blissful sphere,
                With the soft welcome of an angel's reed
            Thy passage through the shadowy vale to cheer?

                    Or doth affection's root
                So to earth's soil adhere—
                    That thou, in fond pursuit,
                Still turn'st to idols dear?
            Drawest thou the curtain from a cherished scene
                    Once more with yearning to survey
                The little student over his book serene,
                    The glad one at his play,
                The blooming babe so lately on thy breast
                            Cradled to rest—
                        Those three fair boys,
Lingers thy soul with them, even from heaven's perfect joys?
Say—wouldst thou teach us thus, how strong a mother's tie?
                That when all others fade away,
                Stricken down in mouldering clay,