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

BURIAL OF TWO YOUNG SISTERS,

THE ONLY CHILDREN OF THEIR PARENTS.

THEY'RE here, in this turf-bed —those tender forms, So kindly cherish'd, and so fondly loved, They're here. Sweet sisters! pleasant in their lives And not in death divided. Sure 'tis meet That blooming ones should linger here and learn How quick the transit to the silent tomb. I do remember them, their pleasant brows So mark'd with pure affections, and the glance Of their mild eyes, when, in the house of God, They gathered up the manna, that distill'd, Like dew, around. The eldest, parted first, And it was touching even to tears, to see The perfect meekness of that child-like soul, Turning 'mid sorrow's chastening to its God, And loosening every link of earthly hope, To gird an angel's glorious garments on. The younger lingered yet a little while,

Drooping and beautiful. Strongly the nerve Of that lone spirit clasped its parent-prop: Yet still in timid tenderness embraced The Rock of Ages—while the Saviour's voice Confirmed its trust: "Suffer the little ones To come to me." And then her sister's couch Undrew its narrow covering—and those forms, Which side by side, on the same cradle-bed, So oft had shared the sleep of infancy, Were laid on that clay pillow, cheek to cheek And hand to hand, until that morning break, Which hath no night. And ye are left alone, Who nurtured those fair buds, and often said Unto each other, in the hour of care, "These same shall comfort us for all our toil." Yes, ye are left alone. It is not ours To heal such wound. Man hath too weak a hand, All he can give, is tears. But he who took Your treasures to his keeping: He hath power To bear you onward to that better land, Where none are written childless, and torn hearts Blend in a full eternity of bliss.