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MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.
73
Still o'er the loved disciple's page
His fervent spirit hung,
Regardless though the grasp of pain
Each shuddering nerve unstrung.
"Speed on!" Then flew the writer's pen
With grief and fear perplext,
For Death's sure footstep nearer drew
With each receding text.
The prompting breath more faintly came—
"Speed on!—his form I see—
That awful messenger of God,
Who may not stay for me."
"Master, 'tis done." "Thou speakest well,
Life with thy lines kept pace"—
They bare him to the place of prayer,
The death-dew on his face;
And there, while o'er the gasping breast
The last keen torture stole,
With the high watch-word of the skies,
Went forth that sainted soul.
