Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of the Wife of a Clergyman, during the Sickness of her Husband

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Zinzendorff and Other Poems (1836)
by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Death of the Wife of a Clergyman, during the Sickness of her Husband

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4041274Zinzendorff and Other Poems — Death of the Wife of a Clergyman, during the Sickness of her Husband1836Lydia Huntley Sigourney

DEATH OF THE WIFE OF A CLERGYMAN, DURING THE SICKNESS OF HER HUSBAND.

Dark sorrow brooded o'er the Pastor's home,
The prayer was silent, and the loving group
That sang their hymn of praise at even and morn
Now droop'd in pain,—or with a noiseless step
Tended the sick. It was a time of woe:
Days measur'd out in anguish, and drear nights
Mocking the eye that waited for the dawn.
They, who from youth by hallow'd vows conjoin'd,
Had borne life's burdens with united arm,
And side by side, its adverse fortunes foil'd,
Apart,—an agonizing warfare fought
With Nature's stern destroyer. Tidings past
From couch to couch,—how stood the doubtful strife
'Twixt life and death. They might not lay their hand
Upon each other's throbbing brow,—or breathe
The words of comfort, for Disease had set
A gulf between them.

                                 Hark! what sound appall'd
The suffering husband? 'Twas a mourner's sob
Beside his bed.
                         "My Mother will not speak,
They say she's dead."
                                    Art thou the messenger,
Poor boy! from whom the love that gently sooth'd
Thy cradle moan,—that 'mid thy sports did trace
The great Creator's name, and on thro' life
Mid all its wanderings and adversities
Would still have clung to thee untir'd, unchang'd,
Is blotted out forever? Thou dost tell
A loss thou canst not measure.
                                              She, the friend,
The Mother, imag'd in those daughter's hearts,
First, dearest, best-beloved,—who joy'd to walk
The meek companion of a Man of God
Hath given her hand to that Destroyer's grasp
Who rifleth the clay cottage,—sending forth
The immortal habitant. Fearless she laid
Earth's vestments by.
                              And thou, whose tenderest trust
Did strongly rivet on that marble form,
Whose confidence in that cold breast was seal'd
So fearlessly and long, lift up thy soul,
"She is not here,—but risen." Show the faith
Which thou hast preach'd to others, by its power
In the dark night of trouble. Take the cross,
And from thy bruised heart pour freshly forth
The spirit of thy Lord, teaching thy flock
To learn Jehovah's lessons,—and be still.