216
MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
Take up the triumph-song, thou who didst bow
So long and meekly, 'neath the Chastener's rod,
Thou, whose firm faith beheld with raptur'd glow
The resurrection cleave the burial-sod,
Go to thy God.
"THY WILL BE DONE."
When with unclouded ray
Shines the bright Sun,
When summer streamlets play,
And all around is gay,
Then shall the spirit say,
"Thy will be done?"
No.—When the flowers of love
Fade, one by one,
When in its blasted grove
The shuddering heart doth rove,
Then say, and look above
"Thy will be done."
