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Home  »  Specimens of American Poetry  »  Lydia H. Sigourney (1791–1865)

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By Burial of the Young

Lydia H. Sigourney (1791–1865)

THERE was an open grave,—and many an eye

Look’d down upon it. Slow the sable hearse

Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare

The young, unwearied form to that cold couch,

Which age and sorrow render sweet to man.

—There seem’d a sadness in the humid air,

Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds

Where slumber multitudes.—

—There was a train

Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom,

And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came,

And stood upon the brink of that dark pit,

In pensive beauty, waiting the approach

Of their companion. She was wont to fly,

And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring,

Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers,

And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came

With movements fashion’d to the deep-toned bell:—

She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend,

And tears of those who at her side were nursed

By the same mother.

Ah! and one was there,

Who, ere the fading of the summer rose,

Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But death

Arose between them. The pale lover watch’d

So close her journey through the shadowy vale,

That almost to his heart, the ice of death

Enter’d from hers. There was a brilliant flush

Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye

Pour’d such unearthly light, that hope would hang

Even on the archer’s arrow, while it dropp’d

Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil’d

For that slight breath which held her from the tomb,

Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun

Marks for his own, on some cool mountain’s breast,

Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light.

——Oft o’er the musings of her silent couch,

Came visions of that matron form which bent

With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless

Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand

In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved

The sainted mother, would redeem the child.

Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace

So dove-like, settling o’er a soul that loved

Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile

With which the allurements of a world so dear

Were counted and resign’d? that eloquence

So fondly urging those whose hearts were full

Of sublunary happiness to seek

A better portion? Whence that voice of joy,

Which from the marble lip in life’s last strife

Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home?

—Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand

Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks

Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits

The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart

In praise to Him, who gave the victory.