Poems Sigourney 1834/To the Memory of a Young Lady
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.
Brilliant and beautiful!—And can it be
That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light—
Upon thy cheek no smile?—I little deemed
At our last parting, when thy cheering voice
Breathed the soul's harmony, what shadowy form
Then rose between us, and with icy dart
Wrote, "Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed
That thy elastic step, Death's darkened vale
Would tread before me.
Friend! I shrink to say
Farewell to thee. In youth's unclouded morn
We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower,
And win it for our pleasure, or our pride.
But when the stern realities of life
Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms
Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes
A healing essence, and a strengthening charm,
Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love,
Departed and deplored. Talents were thine
Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit,
And that keen glance of intellect which reads,
Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs
Of human action. Yet such meek regard
For other's feelings, such a simple grace
And singleness of purpose, such respect
To woman's noiseless duties sweetly blent,
And tempered those high gifts, that every heart
That feared their splendour, loved their goodness too.
I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls
Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone
Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld
Their bright expansion through each ripening year.
To them the sacred name of daughter blent
All images of comforter and friend,
The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain,
Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings.
What shall console their sorrow, when young morn
Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile
Of filial love doth mark it?—or when eve
Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone,
So long the treasure of their listening heart,
Uttereth no music?
Ah!—so frail are we—
So like the brief ephemeron that wheels
Its momentary round, we scarce can weep
Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share
The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point
Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death;
Down to the mouldering multitude we go,
And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes,
The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage
In deep oblivion rest. Then let the woes
And joys of earth be to the deathless soul
Like the swept dew-drop from the eagle's wing
When waking in his strength, he sunward soars.