Poems Sigourney 1827/Visit to the venerable Charles Thompson
VISIT TO THE VENERABLE CHARLES THOMPSON
WHEN AT THE AGE OF NINETY SIX—FORMERLY SECRETARY
TO THE FIRST CONGRESS.
You 've seen, perchance, some sever'd column stand
At Athens or Palmyra, mid the gloom
Pure, prominent, majestic,—though its base
Was dark with mouldering ruins, and the dome
Which once it propp'd, had yielded to the wrath
Of pitiless ages.—Ye, perchance, have stood
What time the pale moon bathed its lonely brow
In living light, and heard the fitful winds
Shriek their wild question, wherefore that remain'd
When all beside were fallen. Thought ye not then
Of man, who lingering at the feast of life,
Perceives his heart's companions risen and gone?
Is there not grief in that deep solitude
Of lost companionship?—
—Yet one I saw,
Who in this wilderness had trod, till life,
Retreating through the bloodless veins, maintain'd
Faint stand at her last fortress.—His wan brow
Was lightly furrow'd, and his lofty form
Unbent by time, while dignified, erect,
And passionless, he made the narrow round
From couch to casement, and his eye beheld
This world of shadowy things unmoved, as one
Who was about to cast his vesture off
In weariness to sleep.—His course had been
O'er those proud billows, where the dazzling beam
Of honour shines;—but now false Memory loosed
Her time-worn cable from the wilder'd mind,
Blotting the chart whereon it loved to gaze
Mid the dim ocean of returnless years.—
—They brought the trophies forth which he had won,
And spread them in his sight,—a nation's thanks
Graved on that massy ore which misers love:—
But vacantly he gazed, and caught no trace
Of lost delight.—The worldling's glance might scan,
In the slow changes of that saintly brow,
Nought save the wreck of intellect, and scorn
Such humbling picture; but an angel's eye
Train'd in the value of the gold of Heaven,
Would differently interpret.
—By his side
Was God's blest book, and on its open page
Gleam'd forth the name of Him of Nazareth.—
Quick o'er his brow the light of gladness came,
While on those leaves his wither'd lip he laid,
And tears burst forth,—yes,—tears of rushing joy,
For this had been the banner of his soul
Through all her pilgrimage.
—To his dull ear
I spake the message of a friend who walk'd
With him in glory's path, and nobly shared
That fellowship in danger and in toil
Which knits pure souls together.—But the name
Restored no image of that cherish'd form
In youth beloved.—I should have said farewell,
In brokenness of heart,—but up he rose
And with a seerlike majesty pour'd forth
His holy adjuration to the God
Who o'er time's broken wave had borne his bark
Safe toward the haven.—Deep that thrilling prayer
Sank down into my bosom, like a spring
Of comfort and of joy.—All else was gone,—
Ambition,—glory,—friendship,—earthly hope.—
But firm devotion, like a sentinel,
Waking and watching round the parting soul,
Gave it the soldier's shield, and pilgrim's staff
For its returnless journey.—When I saw
This triumph of our faith,—this gem, that glow'd
Bright mid the dross of man's infirmity,
Low on the earth I laid my lip, and said.
"Oh, let me with the righteous die!—and be
My end like his."