Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/71

Into thy breast, or the storm-spirit dashed
Thy salt tears to the sky? What hand hath reared
Upon thy ever-heaving pedestal
One monumental fane to those who sleep
Within thy cloistered chambers? Myriads there,
Wrapped in the tangled sea-fan's gorgeous shroud,
On thy pearl pavement find their sepulchre.
Earth strictly questioned for these absent ones,
Her beautiful, her brave, her innocent;
But thou, in thy unyielding silence gave
No tidings of them, and despotic bade
Beauty and Death, like rival kings, divide
Thy secret realm.
                              Mysterious Deep, farewell!
I turn from thy companionship. But lo,
Thy voice doth follow me. 'Mid lonely bower,
Or twilight dream, or wakeful couch, I hear
That solemn, and reverberated hymn
From thy deep organ which doth speak God's praise
In thunder, night and day.
                                            Still by my side
Even as a dim seen spirit deign to walk
Prompter of holy thought, and type of Him,
Sleepless, immutable, omnipotent.