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

THE LOST DARLING.

SHE was my idol. Night and day, to scan The fine expansion of her form, and mark The unfolding mind, like vernal rose-bud, start To sudden beauty, was my chief delight. To find her fairy footsteps following mine, Her hand upon my garments, or her lip Long sealed to mine, and in the watch of night The quiet breath of innocence to feel Soft on my cheek, was such a full content Of happiness, as none but mothers know. Her voice was like some tiny harp that yields To the slight fingered breeze, and as it held Brief converse with her doll, or playful soothed The moaning kitten, or with patient care Conned o'er the alphabet—but most of all, Its tender cadence in her evening prayer Thrilled on the ear like some ethereal tone Heard in sweet dreams. But now alone I sit, Musing of her, and dew with mournful tears

Her little robes, that once with woman's pride I wrought, as if there were a need to deck What God hath made so beautiful. I start, Half fancying from her empty crib there comes A restless sound, and breathe the accustomed words "Hush! Hush thee, dearest." Then I bend and weep— As though it were a sin to speak to one Whose home is with the angels. Gone to God! And yet I wish I had not seen the pang That wrung her features, nor the ghastly white Settling around her lips. I would that Heaven Had taken its own, like some transplanted flower Blooming in all its freshness. Gone to God! Be still, my heart! what could a mother's prayer, In all the wildest ecstacies of hope, Ask for its darling like the bliss of Heaven?