Poems Sigourney 1834/The Baptism
THE BAPTISM.
'Twas near the close of that blest day, when, with melodious swell,
To crowded mart and lonely vale, had spoke the Sabbath-bell;
And on a broad, unruffled stream, with bordering verdure bright,
The westering sunbeam richly shed a tinge of crimson light.
When, lo! a solemn train appeared, by their loved pastor led,
And sweetly rose the holy hymn, as toward that stream they sped,
And he its cleaving, crystal breast, with graceful movement trod,
His steadfast eye upraised, to seek communion with its God.
Then bending o'er his staff, approached that willow-fringed shore,
A man of many weary years, with furrowed temples hoar,
And faintly breathed his trembling lip—"Behold, I fain would be
Buried in baptism with my Lord, ere death shall summon me."
With brow benign, like Him whose hand did wavering Peter guide,
The pastor bore his tottering frame through that translucent tide,
And plunged him 'neath the shrouding wave, and spake the Triune name,
And joy upon that withered face, in wondering radiance came.
And then advanced a lordly form, in manhood's towering pride,
Who from the gilded snares of earth had wisely turned aside,
And following in His steps, who bowed to Jordan's startled wave,
In deep humility of soul, faithful this witness gave.
Who next?—A fair and fragile form, in snowy robe doth move,
That tender beauty in her eye that wakes the vow of love—
Yea, come, thou gentle one, and arm thy soul with strength divine,
This stern world hath a thousand darts to vex a breast like thine.
Beneath its smile a traitor's kiss is oft in darkness bound—
Cling to that Comforter, who holds a balm for every wound;
Propitiate that Protector's care, who never will forsake,
And thou shalt strike the harp of praise, even when thy heart-strings break.
Then with a firm, unshrinking step, the watery path she trod,
And gave, with woman's deathless trust, her being to her God,
And when all drooping from the flood she rose, like lily-stem,
Methought that spotless brow might wear an angel's diadem.
Yet more! Yet more!—How meek they bow to their Redeemer's rite,
Then pass with music on their way, like joyous sons of light;
Yet, lingering on those shores I staid, till every sound was hushed,
For hallowed musings o'er my soul, like spring-swollen rivers rushed.
'Tis better, said the Voice within, to bear a Christian's cross,
Than sell this fleeting life for gold, which Death shall prove but dross,
Far better, when yon shrivelled skies are like a banner furled,
To share in Christ's reproach, than gain the glory of the world.