Poems Sigourney 1827/Parting of Lovers

by Lydia Sigourney

PARTING OF LOVERS.

Ah! who shall paint the anguish that attends
The parting of fond hearts? The tear suppress'd
Lest it awake its fellow,—the long sob
Of agony,—the shade involving all
Fair objects, save one brow alone,—where seems
Centred all light and beauty.—When that turns
From the fix'd gaze,—when in dim distance fades

The form,—the shadowy mantle,—the white sail,—
Or when the echo of receding wheels
Dies on the ear—(not like those wheels desired,
When Sisera's mother from the lattice look'd,
Eager the pompous chariot to behold)—
Then the wild egress of imprison'd grief
Defies control.—How sacred every spot
That speaks of the departed,—every scene
Of mutual intercourse,—and every seat
Where he reclined!—The flower which he hath touch'd,
The page, o'er which his eye enamour'd hung,—
Robe, ring, or portrait press upon the heart
Even as his representatives, to swell
The tide of tender sorrow. Every word
Which he hath utter'd,—every varying tone,
And e'en each change of feature, are consign'd
As gems to Memory's casket. Thither flies
The lone heart in its poverty, as turns
The miser to his hoard.
                                   —Yet he who goes,
Hath but the lighter burden. The bright charms
Of Nature's landscape,—graceful hills, and streams
Sparkling and musical,—or crested wave,
Or e'en the buffet of the wintry storm,
The tossing ship,—the busy face of man,—
And pride, that shames the weakness of the heart,
Parry the shafts of anguish.—Still, at times,
Deep sadness overwhelms the wanderer's soul;
And the light tongue of those who idly strive
To laugh away dejection,—is a probe
To the fresh, quivering wound.—Perchance, the morn
Whose kindling blushes tint the uncolour'd sky,

Reminds him of that roseate brow,—now pale,
And bloodless for his sake.—The evening star
Restores those blissful walks,—when first he found
That Heaven, as with a wreath of Eden's flowers,
Had bound their sympathies.—The full-orb'd moon
Reveals upon her silver page, those hours
So exquisite to thought,—when speech was sighs;
And new-born Love, like some fair infant roused
From pictured dreams, mingled the timid tear
With the soft certainty of waking bliss.—
Perchance, close-wrapt in the still arms of night,
The lover, when no prying eye is near,
Draws from his bosom's cell, a shining tress,
And presses to his lips; or o'er the brow
Fresh from the pencil of the artist, hangs
And thinks of her, whose prayer may never rise
Without his name. Yet there 's a sex in hearts,
One loves with strong and passionate embrace;
The other trusts its all,—stakes life on love,—
With deathless ardour clasps one idol-prop,
And in its breaking,—breaks.

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