Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/28

        Music from my ear hath fled,
        Yet still a sweet tone lingereth there,
    The blessing that my mother shed
        Upon my evening prayer.
            Dim is my wasted eye
            To all that beauty brings,
    The brow of grace,—the form of symmetry
            Are half-forgotten things;—
    Yet one bright hue is vivid still,
A mother's holy smile that soothed my sharpest ill.

    Memory, with traitor-tread
        Methinks, doth steal away
    Treasures that the mind had laid
        Up for a wintry day:—
    Images of sacred power,
    Cherished deep in passion's hour,
        Faintly now my bosom stir,
    Good and evil like a dream
    Half obscured and shadowy seem,
Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her,
        Yea,—it remembereth her,
    Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre.