Poems Sigourney 1834/Unchanged of the Tomb
THE UNCHANGED OF THE TOMB.
They have prest the valve of the vaulted tomb,
And the tremulous sun-beam falls
Like a stranger's foot on that cheerless gloom,
And the dead in their silent halls.
Hark! to the knell of a funeral train,
As on with a measured tread,
They shuddering plunge to the dark domain
Of the unsaluting dead.
They have brought an innocent infant here
To the charge of its kindred race,
But no arm is stretched from their coffins drear
To fold it in fond embrace.
It hath come from a mother's tender breast,
She did foster it night and day,
What a fearful change to such cherished guest
Is this grim and cold array.
Her heart for a double woe doth weep,
As it heaves with a stifled moan,
For her first-born lies in his dreamless sleep
'Neath yon dark-browed arch of stone.
He fell when the wintry tempest wrecked
The wealth of the verdant plain;—
And lo! ere the spring hath its ravage decked,
As a mourner she cometh again.
He was smitten down in his beauty's pride,
In the dawn of his manhood's day,
But strong in the faith of Him who died,
Was the soul as it soared away.
She passeth on with a ghostly glide
Through the chilled and mouldering space,
She is drooping low at her idol's side
With her wild eyes on his face.
But the pestilent damps of that dread abode,
Have breathed on a stainless cheek,
And it seemed that the warmth of the living blood
Through his ruby lips might speak.
And his glossy locks to a fearful length
Have grown in that bed of clay,
In a clustering mesh they have wreathed their strength,
Who will part those curls away?
Ah! list to the mother's frantic tone,
"Rise! Rise, my son!" she cries,
And the mocking cave with a hollow groan
"My Son!—My Son!"—replies.
They have led her away in her deep despair,
She hath wept till her eye is dim,
Your dear one is risen!—he is not there!—
Say, what is the tomb to him?
Look to the flight of the spirit's wing
Through the glorious fields of air,
Look to the world where the angels sing,
And see that ye meet him there.