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

ROSE TO THE DEAD.

I PLUCK'D a rose for thee, sweet friend, Thy ever favorite flower, A bud I long had nurs'd for thee, Within my wintry bower; I group'd it with the fragrant leaves That on the myrtle grew, And tied it with a silken string Of soft cerulean blue.

I brought them all to thee, sweet friend,And stood beside the chair, Where sickness long thy step had chain'd, But yet thou wert not there; I turn'd me to thy curtain'd bed, So fair with snowy lawn, Methought the unpress'd pillow said "Not here, but risen and gone."

Thy book of prayer lay open wide, And 'mid its leaves were seen,

A flower with petals shrunk and dried, Lost Summer's wither'd queen. It was a flower I gave thee, friend, Thou lov'dst it for my sake; "See here a fresher one I bring," No lip in answer spake.

Then from the sofa's quiet side I rais'd the covering rare, "Sleepest thou?" upon the forehead lay Unstirr'd the auburn hair: But when to leave my cherished gift, That gentle hand I stole, Its icy touch! its fearful chill, Congeal'd my inmost soul.

Ah friend, dear friend! and can it be Thy last sweet word is said? That all too late my token comes, To cheer the pulseless dead? Here, on thy cold unheaving breast, The promis'd Rose I lay, The last, poor symbol of a love That cannot fade away.

But thou, 'mid yon perennial bowers Where angel footsteps roam,

Among the ever-fragrant flowers That deck the spirit's home, Rememberest thou the mourning friend, Who nightly weeps for thee? And wilt thou pluck a thornless rose And keep it safe for me?