Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

DEATH OF A YOUNG WIFE.

Why is the green earth broken? Yon tall grass, Which in its ripeness woo'd the mower's hand, And the wild rose, whose young buds faintly bloom'd, Why are their roots uptorn? Why swells a mound Of new-made turf among them? Ask of him Who in his lonely chamber weeps so long At morning's dawn, and evening's pensive hour, Whose bosom's planted hopes might scarcely boast More firmness, than yon riven flower of grass.

Yet hath not Memory stores whereon to feed, When Joy's young harvest fails? as clings the bee To the sweet calyx of some smitten flower?

—Still is remembrance—grief. The tender smile Of young, confiding Love, its winning tones, Its self-devotion, its delight to seek Another's good, its ministry to soothe The hour of pain, come o'er the hermit heart To claim its bitterest tear.

But that meek Faith, Which all distrustful of its holiest deeds So strongly clasped a Saviour's feet, when Death Rang the crushed hem-strings like a broken harp, That Hope which shed its seraph-benison On all who wept around, that smile which left Heaven's stainless semblance on the breathless clay, These are the tokens to the soul bereav'd, To gird itself invincibly, and seek A deathless Union with the parted bride.