Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/36

The form,—the shadowy mantle,—the white sail,—
Or when the echo of receding wheels
Dies on the ear—(not like those wheels desired,
When Sisera's mother from the lattice look'd,
Eager the pompous chariot to behold)—
Then the wild egress of imprison'd grief
Defies control.—How sacred every spot
That speaks of the departed,—every scene
Of mutual intercourse,—and every seat
Where he reclined!—The flower which he hath touch'd,
The page, o'er which his eye enamour'd hung,—
Robe, ring, or portrait press upon the heart
Even as his representatives, to swell
The tide of tender sorrow. Every word
Which he hath utter'd,—every varying tone,
And e'en each change of feature, are consign'd
As gems to Memory's casket. Thither flies
The lone heart in its poverty, as turns
The miser to his hoard.
                                   —Yet he who goes,
Hath but the lighter burden. The bright charms
Of Nature's landscape,—graceful hills, and streams
Sparkling and musical,—or crested wave,
Or e'en the buffet of the wintry storm,
The tossing ship,—the busy face of man,—
And pride, that shames the weakness of the heart,
Parry the shafts of anguish.—Still, at times,
Deep sadness overwhelms the wanderer's soul;
And the light tongue of those who idly strive
To laugh away dejection,—is a probe
To the fresh, quivering wound.—Perchance, the morn
Whose kindling blushes tint the uncolour'd sky,