Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/205

                                        —With silent course
Unostentatious as the heaven-shed dew
Thy bounties fell; nor didst thou scatter gifts
Or utter prayers with pharisaic zeal
For man to note.—Thy praise was with thy God.
In that domestic sphere where Nature rears
Woman's meek throne, thy worth was eminent;
Nor breath'd thy goodness o'er cold, stoic hearts.—
What gentleness was thine,—what kind regard,
To him thou lov'dst what dove-like tenderness
In voice and deed.—Almost Disease might bear
Its lot without repining,—wert thou near
Beside its pillow, or around its couch
Like ministering angel.
                                     —Scarce had Spring
Which shed its damp dews o'er thy daughter's grave
Return'd,—ere thou wert waiting to ascend
Like her, to that bright host, whose ceaseless harps
Hymn the Redeemer.—She was as a rose
Gather'd in loveliness, mid perfumed flowers
And warbling birds of love,—yet drooping still
For the pure breath of that celestial clime
Where summer hath no cloud.—She, with firm hand
Grasp'd the strong hope of everlasting life,
And thou,—in trembling, yet confiding trust,
Didst dare the waves of death's tempestuous flood
With the same anchor.—So, thou art at rest,
Where trouble comes not;—though thine image lives
With grieving love.—
                                  But peace!—thou pensive strain,—
How vain to mourn o'er their repose, who warn
The musing idler, and the man of care,—