Poems Sigourney 1827/"Ye shall seek me in the Morning, but I shall not be."

by Lydia Sigourney

"YE SHALL SEEK ME IN THE MORNING, BUT I SHALL NOT BE."

The friend who taught my infant tongue
    Its broken utterance to combine,
Who bending o'er my slumbers sung
    Her cradle-hymn with smile benign,
Who in my childish sports would share
    The gayest laugh, the wildest glee,
And in my hour of youthful care
    Dispel its sadness,—where is she?—

The morning o'er the gilded grove
    Bright on the kindling landscape fell,
I sought her where she oft did rove
    In want and sorrow's lonely cell;—
I sought her in the hallow'd dome
    Where sabbath bells peal'd loud and clear,
I sought her in her peaceful home
    But heard no more her welcome dear.

I sate me in her custom'd seat,
    But there her book unopen'd lay,
Her garden breathed its fragrance sweet
    From thousand shrubs and flowrets gay,
Her lillies pale did graceful bend,
    Her green vine clasp'd its favorite tree,

But she who used those sweets to tend,
    And love their beauty,—where was she?—

Sighing, I sought that lonely place,
    Where cypress shades the sleeping dust,
Where grieved affection oft may trace
    The idols of its fondest trust:—
The cold dews bathed a narrow mound,
    The tall, rank grass waved wide and free,
The sweeping gale return'd a sound,
    And seem'd to echo—"where is she?"—

But answering to my wounded breast
    Methought a hovering spirit said,
"Thou who dost break this holy rest
    To seek the living mid the dead,
Thy Guide is risen!"—Deep silence fell!—
    Awe struck my heart unknown before,—
No more shall impious grief rebel,
    This murmuring lip presume no more.—

"Thy Guide is risen!"—'Tis well!—'Tis well!—
    Her heart was in a higher sphere,
For harps of angels seem'd to swell
    Congenial on her earthly ear;—
Her home was not where storms resound,
    Where discord waves a blood-stain'd rod,
Where sorrow stalks his hourly round,—
    Her home was heaven.—she rose to God.

---