Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/35

He was smitten down in his beauty's pride,
    In the dawn of his manhood's day,
But strong in the faith of Him who died,
    Was the soul as it soared away.

She passeth on with a ghostly glide
    Through the chilled and mouldering space,
She is drooping low at her idol's side
    With her wild eyes on his face.

But the pestilent damps of that dread abode,
    Have breathed on a stainless cheek,
And it seemed that the warmth of the living blood
    Through his ruby lips might speak.

And his glossy locks to a fearful length
    Have grown in that bed of clay,
In a clustering mesh they have wreathed their strength,
    Who will part those curls away?

Ah! list to the mother's frantic tone,
    "Rise! Rise, my son!" she cries,
And the mocking cave with a hollow groan
    "My Son!—My Son!"—replies.

They have led her away in her deep despair,
    She hath wept till her eye is dim,
Your dear one is risen!—he is not there!—
    Say, what is the tomb to him?

Look to the flight of the spirit's wing
    Through the glorious fields of air,
Look to the world where the angels sing,
    And see that ye meet him there.