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# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Consumptive Girl

THE CONSUMPTIVE GIRL.
FROM A PICTURE.
Thou may'st not raise her from that couch, kind nurse,
To bind those clustering tresses, or to press
The accustomed cordial. Thou no more shalt feel
Her slight arms twining faintly round thy neck
To prop her weakness. That low, whispered tone
No more can thank thee, but the earnest eye
Speaks with its tender glance of all thy care,
By night and day. Henceforth thy mournful task
Is brief: to wipe the cold and starting dew
From that pure brow, to touch the parching lip
With the cool water-drop—and guide the breeze
That fragrant through her flowers comes travelling on,
Freshly to lift the poor heart's broken valve,
Which gasping waits its doom.
 Mother! thy lot
Hath been a holy one; upon thy breast
To cherish that fair bud, to share its bloom,
Refresh its languor with the rain of Heaven,
And give it back to God. The hour is come.
Thy sleepless night-watch o'er her infancy
Bore its own payment. Thou hast never known
For her, thy child, burden, or toil, or pang,
But what the full fount of maternal love
Did wash away, leaving those diamond sands
Which memory from her precious casket strews.
Behold, her darkening eye doth search for thee,
As the bowed violet through some chilling screne
Turns toward the Sun that cheered it. Well thine heart
Hath read its language from her cradle-hour,
What saith it to thee?
 "Blessed one, farewell!
I go to Jesus; early didst thou teach
My soul the way, from yonder Book of Heaven;
Come soon to me, sweet guide."
 Ah, gather up
The glimmering radiance of that parting smile—
Prolong the final kiss—hang fondly o'er
The quivering pressure of that marble hand,
Those last, deep tokens of a daughter's love.
 Weep, but not murmur. She no more shall pine
Before thine eyes in smothered agony,
And waste away, and wear the hectic flush,
That cheats so long, to wake a keener pain.
Beside thy hearth she is a guest no more;
But in Heaven's beauty shalt thou visit her,
In Heaven's high health.
 Call her no longer thine.
Thou couldst not keep Consumption's moth away
From her frail web of life. Thou could'st not guard
Thy darling from the lion. All thy love,
In the best armour of its sleepless might,
The spoiler trampled as a reed. Give thanks
That she is safe with Him who hath the power
O'er pain and sin and death. Mourner give thanks.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Unchanged of the Tomb

THE UNCHANGED OF THE TOMB.
They have prest the valve of the vaulted tomb,
 And the tremulous sun-beam falls
Like a stranger's foot on that cheerless gloom,
 And the dead in their silent halls.
Hark! to the knell of a funeral train,
 As on with a measured tread,
They shuddering plunge to the dark domain
 Of the unsaluting dead.
They have brought an innocent infant here
 To the charge of its kindred race,
But no arm is stretched from their coffins drear
 To fold it in fond embrace.
It hath come from a mother's tender breast,
 She did foster it night and day,
What a fearful change to such cherished guest
 Is this grim and cold array.
Her heart for a double woe doth weep,
 As it heaves with a stifled moan,
For her first-born lies in his dreamless sleep
 'Neath yon dark-browed arch of stone.
He fell when the wintry tempest wrecked
 The wealth of the verdant plain;—
And lo! ere the spring hath its ravage decked,
 As a mourner she cometh again.
He was smitten down in his beauty's pride,
 In the dawn of his manhood's day,
But strong in the faith of Him who died,
 Was the soul as it soared away.
She passeth on with a ghostly glide
 Through the chilled and mouldering space,
She is drooping low at her idol's side
 With her wild eyes on his face.
But the pestilent damps of that dread abode,
 Have breathed on a stainless cheek,
And it seemed that the warmth of the living blood
 Through his ruby lips might speak.
And his glossy locks to a fearful length
 Have grown in that bed of clay,
In a clustering mesh they have wreathed their strength,
 Who will part those curls away?
Ah! list to the mother's frantic tone,
 "Rise! Rise, my son!" she cries,
And the mocking cave with a hollow groan
 "My Son!—My Son!"—replies.
They have led her away in her deep despair,
 She hath wept till her eye is dim,
Your dear one is risen!—he is not there!—
 Say, what is the tomb to him?
Look to the flight of the spirit's wing
 Through the glorious fields of air,
Look to the world where the angels sing,
 And see that ye meet him there.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Desert Flower

THE DESERT FLOWER.
A weary course the traveller held,
 As on with footstep lone,
By scientific zeal impelled
 He tracked the torrid zone.
His thoughts were with his native glades,
 His father's pleasant halls,
Where darkly peer through woven shades
 The abbey's ivied walls.
But to the far horizon's bound,
 Wide as the glance could sweep,
The sandy desert spread around
 Like one vast, waveless deep.
What saw he 'mid that dreary scene,
 To wake his rapture wild?
A flower!—A flower!—with glorious mien,
 Like some bright rainbow's child.
Kneeling he clasped it to his breast,
 He praised its wonderous birth,
Fresh, fragile, beautiful and blest,
 The poetry of earth.
No secret fountain through its veins
 Sustaining vigor threw,
No dew refreshed those arid plains,
 Yet there the stranger grew.
It seemed as if some tender friend,
 Beloved in childhood's day,
A murmur through those leaves did send,
 A smile to cheer his way:
And fervently a prayer for those
 In his own distant bower,
Like incense from his heart uprose
 Beside that Desert Flower.
For thus do Nature's hallowed charms
 Man's softened soul inspire,
As to the infant in her arms
 The mother points its sire.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Ninetieth Birth-day

THE NINETIETH BIRTH-DAY.
How seems the wide expanse, respected sage,
 The broad horizon of life's troubled sky? The lengthened course from infancy to age,
 How gleams its chart on Wisdom's pausing eye?
Thou, who didst see our infant country start
 To giant strife from cradle sleep, serene,
How strikes that drama on the heaven-taught heart
 That calmly weighs the actor and the scene?
How seem the gaudes that tempt ambition's trust?
 The hero's pomp, the banner proud unfurled? The sculptured trophy o'er the nameless dust?
 The insatiate tear, that scorns a conquered world?
Those boasted gifts that kindle passion's power
 To fitful fires of momentary ray? Those dreaded woes, that wake at midnight-hour
The prayer—"Oh father! take this cup away."
How seem they all? Forgive the intrusive strain,
 We, fleeting emmets, withering ere our prime,
Would fain one deep, ennobling vision gain,
 Through thy majestic telescope of time.
Those, who with thee the race of life begun,
 The fair, the strong, the exquisitely blest,
Have faded from thy presence, one by one,
 And sunk, o'er wearied, to an earlier rest.
Alone, sublime, and tending toward the sky!
 Thus towers Mont Blanc above the hoary train,
Wins the first smile of day's refulgent eye,
 And latest throws its radiance o'er the plain.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Winter

WINTER.
I deem thee not unlovely, though thou com'st
With a stern visage. To the tuneful bird,
The blushing flowret, the rejoicing stream,
Thy discipline is harsh. But unto man
Methinks thou hast a kindlier ministry.
Thy lengthened eve is full of fireside joys,
And deathless linking of warm heart to heart,
So that the hoarse storm passes by unheard.
Earth, robed in white, a peaceful sabbath holds,
And keepeth silence at her Maker's feet.
She ceaseth from the harrowing of the plough,
And from the harvest shouting.
 Man should rest
Thus from his fevered passions, and exhale
The unbreathed carbon of his festering thought,
And drink in holy health. As the tost bark
Doth seek the shelter of some quiet bay
To trim its shattered cordage, and restore
Its riven sails—so should the toil-worn mind
Refit for Time's rough voyage. Man, perchance,
Soured by the world's sharp commerce, or impaired
By the wild wanderings of his summer way,
Turns like a truant scholar to his home,
And yields his nature to sweet influences
That purify and save.
 The ruddy boy
Comes with his shouting school-mates from their sport,
On the smooth, frozen lake, as the first star
Hangs pure and cold its twinkling cresset forth,
And throwing off his skates with boisterous glee,
Hastes to his mother's side. Her tender hand
Doth shake the snow-flakes from his glossy curls,
And draw him nearer, and with gentle voice
Ask of his lessons, while her lifted heart
Solicits silently the Sire of Heaven
To "bless the lad." The timid infant learns
Better to love its sire—and longer sits
Upon his knee, and with a velvet lip
Prints on his brow such language, as the tongue
Hath never spoken.
 Come thou to life's feast
With dove-eyed meekness, and bland charity,
And thou shalt find even Winter's rugged blasts
The minstrel teacher of thy well tuned-soul,
And when the last drop of its cup is drained—
Arising with a song of praise—go up
To the eternal banquet.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Solitude

SOLITUDE.
Deep Solitude I sought.—There was a dell
Where woven shades shut out the eye of day,
While towering near, the rugged mountains made
Dark back-ground 'gainst the sky.
 Thither I went,
And bade my spirit taste that lonely fount
For which it long had thirsted 'mid the strife
And fever of the world.—I thought to be
There without witness.—But the violet's eye
Looked up to greet me, the fresh wild-rose smiled,
And the young pendent vine-flower kissed my cheek.
There were glad voices, too.—The garrulous brook,
Untiring, to the patient pebbles told
Its history.—Up came the singing breeze
And the broad leaves of the cool poplar spake
Responsive, every one.—Even busy life
Woke in that dell.—The dexterous spider threw
From spray to spray the silver-tissued snare.
The thrifty ant, whose curving pincers pierced
The rifled grain, toiled toward her citadel.
To her sweet hive went forth the loaded bee,
While from her wind-rocked nest, the mother-bird
Sang to her nurslings.—
 Yet I strangely thought
To be alone and silent in thy realm,
Spirit of life and love!—It might not be!—
There is no solitude in thy domains,
Save what man makes, when in his selfish breast
He locks his joys, and shuts out others' grief.
Thou hast not left thyself in this wide world
Without a witness. Even the desert place
Speaketh thy name. The simple flowers and streams
Are social and benevolent, and he
Who holdeth converse in their language pure,
Roaming among them at the cool of day,
Shall find, like him who Eden's garden drest,
His Maker there, to teach his listening heart.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Tomb

THE TOMB.
"So parted they: the angel up to Heaven,
And Adam to his bower."
Milton.
This is the parting place: this narrow house,
With its turf roof and marble door, where none
Have entered and returned. If earth's poor gold
Ere clave unto thee, here unlade thyself;
For thou didst bring none with thee to this world,
Nor may'st thou bear it hence. Honours hast thou,
Ambition's shadowy gathering? Shred them loose
To the four winds, their natural element.
Yea, more, thou must unclasp the living ties
Of strong affection. Hast thou nurtured babes?
And was each wailing from their feeble lip
A thorn to pierce thee? every infant smile
And budding hope a spring of ecstacy?
Turn, turn away, for thou henceforth to them
A parent art no more? Wert thou a wife?
And was the arm on which thy spirit leaned
Faithful in all thy need? Yet must thou leave
This fond protection, and pursue alone
Thy shuddering pathway down the vale of death.
Friendship's free intercourse—the promised joys
Of soul-implanted, soul-confiding love,
The cherished sympathies which every year
Struck some new root within thy yielding breast,
Stand loose from all, thou lonely voyager
Unto the land of spirits.
 Yea, even more!
Lay down thy body! Hast thou worshipped it
With vanity's sweet incense, and wild waste
Of precious time? Did beauty bring it gifts,
The lily brow, the full resplendent eye;
The tress, the bloom, the grace, whose magic power
Woke man's idolatry? Oh! lay it down,
Earth's reptile banqueters have need of it.
 Still may'st thou bear o'er Jordan's stormy wave,
One blessed trophy; if thy life hath striven
By penitence and faith such boon to gain,
The victor palm of Christ's atoning love:
And this shall win thee entrance when thou stand'st
A pilgrim at Heaven's gate.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The War-Spirit

THE WAR-SPIRIT.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! how gorgeous thy path,
Pale Earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpet's wild cry,
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The Muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And History her annal emblazons with thine.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! thy secrets are known,
I have looked on the field when the battle was done,
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey;
But the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In the homes that those loved ones revisit no more.
I have traced out thy march, by its features of pain,
While Famine and Pestilence stalked in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;
Death lauded thy deeds, and in letters of flame
The realm of perdition recorded thy name.
War-Spirit! War-Spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast opened be dried—
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Winter Hymn

WINTER HYMN.
Thou bidd'st the glorious sun
 The morning landscape light,
While mountains, vales and hillocks shine
 In winter's frost-work bright.
The imploring trees stretch forth
 Their trusting arms to Thee,
Who shield'st the naked in their hour
 Of cold adversity.
Thou o'er the tender germ
 The curtaining snow dost spread,
And give it slumber as a babe
 Deep in its cradle-bed.
A chain is on the streams,
 And on the summer-flood,
Yet still their sparkling eyes look up
 And beam with gratitude.
The bee hath left her toil,
 Within her cell to sleep,
The warbling tenants of the air
 A silent sabbath keep.
Thou mak'st the lengthened eve,
 The friend of wisdom prove,
And bid'st it bind confiding hearts
 In closer links of love.
Oh Thou, the God of Hope,
 Blest Author of our days,
Forbid that Winter chill our heart,
 Or check the strain of praise.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Zama

ZAMA.
I looked, and on old Zama's arid plain
Two chieftains stood. At distance ranged their hosts,
While they with flashing eye, and gesture strong,
Held their high parley. One was sternly marked
With care and hardship. Still his warrior soul
Frowned in unbroken might, as when he sealed,
In ardent boyhood, the eternal vow
Of enmity to Rome. The other seemed
Of younger years, and on his noble brow
Beauty with magnanimity sat throned;
And yet, methought, his darkening eye-ball said
"Delendo est Carthago."
 Brief they spake,
And parted as proud souls in anger part,
While the wild shriek of trumpets, and the rush
Of cohorts rent the air. I turned away.
The pomp of battle, and the din of arms
May round a period well, but to behold
The mortal struggle, and the riven shield—
To mark how Nature's holiest, tenderest ties
Are sundered—to recount the childless homes,
And sireless babes, and widows' early graves,
Made by one victor-shout, bids the blood creep
Cold through its channels.
 Once again I looked
When the pure moon unveiled a silent scene,
Silent, save when from 'neath some weltering pile
A dying war-horse neighed, in whose gored breast
Life lingered stubbornly, or some pale knight
Half-raised his arm, awakened by the call
Of his loved steed, even from the dream of death.
 With stealthy step the prowling plunderer stalked,
The dark-winged raven led her clamorous brood
To their full feast, and on the shadowy skirts
Of that dire field, the fierce hyena rolled
A keen, malevolent eye.
 Time sped his course.
Fresh verdure mantled Zama's fatal plain,
While Carthage, with a subjugated knee
And crownless head, toiled 'mid the slaves of Rome.
 Once more I sought Hamilcar's awful son—
And lo! an exiled, and despised old man,
Guest of Bithynian perfidy, did grasp
The poison-goblet in his withered hand,
And drink and die!
 Say! is this he who rent
The bloody laurel from Saguntum's walls?
That Eagle of the Alps, who through the clouds,
Which wrapped in murky folds their slippery heights,
Forced his unwieldy elephants? who rolled
Victory's hoarse thunder o'er Ticinus' tide?
And 'mid the field of Cannæ waved his sword
Like a destroying angel?
 This is he!
And this is human glory!
 God of Might!
Gird with thy shield our vacillating hearts,
That 'mid the illusive and bewildering paths
Of this brief pilgrimage, we may not lose
Both this world's peace, and the rewards of that
Which hath no shadow.
 From this double loss,
This wreck of all probationary hope,
Defend us, by thy power.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Angel's Song

THE ANGEL'S SONG.
"They heard a voice from Heaven, saying, Come up hither."
Ye have a land of mist and shade,
 Where spectres roam at will,
Dense clouds your mountain cliffs pervade,
 And damps your vallies chill;
But ne'er has midnight's wing of woe
 Eclipsed our changeless ray;
"Come hither," if ye seek to know
 The bliss of perfect day.
Doubt, like the bohan-upas spreads
 A blight where'er ye tread,
And hope, a wailing mourner, sheds
 The tear o'er harvests dead;
With us, no traitorous foe assails
 When love her home would make,
In Heaven, the welcome never fails,
 "Come," and that warmth partake.
Time revels 'mid your boasted joys,
 Death dims your brightest rose,
And sin your bower of peace destroys—
 Where will ye find repose?
Ye 're wearied in your pilgrim-race,
 Sharp thorns your path infest,
"Come hither,"—rise to our embrace,
 And Christ shall give you rest.
Twas thus, methought, at twilight hour
 The angel's lay came down,
Like dews upon the drooping flower,
 When droughts of summer frown;
How richly o'er the ambient air
 Swelled out that music free,
Oh!—when the pangs of death I bear,
 Sing ye that song to me.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Death of an Aged Christian

DEATH OF AN AGED CHRISTIAN.
I thought that death was terrible. I've seen
His ministry in the distorted brow,
The glazing eye, the struggle and the groan,
With which the heart-strings break. Yet here was one
Whose summoned breath went forth as peacefully
As folds the spent rose when the day is done.
Still life to her was dear, for with strong root
That charity whose fruit is happiness
Did grow and blossom in her, and the light
Of her own cheerful spirit flowing out,
Tinged earth's brief rain-drops with the bow of Heaven.
Time had respected her, had spared her brow
Its beauty, and her heart the unchilled warmth
Of those affections, gentle and sublime
Which make the fireside holy. Hand in hand
With those her care had nurtured, and who joyed.
To pay their debt of gratitude, she past,
Benign and graceful, down the vale of age,
Wrapped up in tender love. Without a sigh,
A change of feature, or a shaded smile,
She gave her hand to the stern messenger,
And as a glad child seeks its Father's house,
Went home. She in her Saviour's ranks had done
A veteran's service, and with Polycarp
Might say to Death, "For more than fourscore years
He was my Lord—shall I deny him now?" No! No! Thou could'st not turn away from him
Who was thy hope from youth, and on whose arm
Thy feebleness of hoary hairs was staid.
Before his Father and the Angel host
He will adjudge thee faithful. So farewell,
Blessed, and full of days. No more thy prayer
Up through the solitude of night shall rise
To bless thy children's children—nor thy soul
Yearn for re-union with those kindred ones
Who went to rest before thee. 'Twas not meet
That thou should'st longer tarry from that bliss
Which God reserveth for the pure in heart.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/The Valley of Jehoshaphat

THE VALLEY OF JEHOSHAPHAT.
Come, Son of Israel, scorned in every land,
Outcast and wandering—come with mournful step
Down to the dark vale of Jehoshaphat,
And weigh the remnant of thy hoarded gold
To buy thyself a grave among the bones
Of patriarchs and of prophets, and of kings.
It is a glorious place to take thy rest,
Poor child of Abraham, 'mid those awful scenes,
And sceptred monarchs, who with Faith's keen eye
Piercing the midnight darkness that o'erhung
Messiah's coming, gave their dying flesh
Unto the worm, with such a lofty trust
In the strong promise of the invisible.
Here are damp gales to lull thy dreamless sleep,
And murmuring recollections of that lyre
Whose passing sweetness bore King David's prayer
Up to the ear of Heaven, and of that strain
With which the weeping prophet dirge-like sung
Doomed Zion's visioned woes. Yon rifted rocks,
So faintly purpled by the westering sun,
Reveal the unguarded walls, the silent towers,
Where in her stricken pomp, Jerusalem
Sleeps like a palsied princess, from whose head
The diadem hath fallen. Still half-concealed
In the deep bosom of that burial-vale
A fitful torrent, 'neath its time-worn arch
Hurries with hoarse tale mid the echoing tombs.
Thou too art near, rude-featured Olivet,
So honoured of my Saviour.
Tell we where
His blessed knees thy flinty bosom prest,
When all night long his wrestling prayer went up;
That I may pour my tear-wet orison
Upon that sacred spot. Thou Lamb of God!
Who for our sakes wert wounded unto death,
Bid blinded Zion turn from Sinai's fires
Her tortured foot, and from the thundering law
Her terror-stricken ear rejoicing raise
Unto the Gospel's music. Bring again
Thy scattered people who so long have borne
A fearful punishment, so long wrung out
The bitter dregs of pale astonishment
Into the wine-cup of the wondering earth.
And oh! to us, who from our being's dawn
Lisp out Salvation's lessons, yet do stray
Like erring sheep, to us thy Spirit give,
That we may keep thy law, and find thy fold,
Ere in the desolate city of the dead
We make our tenement, while Earth doth blot
Our history from the record of mankind.
# Poems (Sigourney, 1834)/Thoughts at the Funeral of a Respected Friend

THOUGHTS AT THE FUNERAL OF A RESPECTED FRIEND.
That solemn knell, whose mournful call
 Strikes on the heart, I heard.
 I saw the sable pall
 Covering the form revered.
 And lo! his father's race, the ancient, and the blest,
Unlock the dim sepulchral halls, where silently they rest,
 And to the unsaluting tomb,
 Curtained round with rayless gloom,
 He entereth in, a wearied guest.
 To his bereaved abode, the fireside chair,
 The holy, household prayer,
 Affection's watchful zeal, his life that blest,
 The tuneful lips that soothed his pain,
With the dear name of "Father" thrilling through his breast,
 He cometh not again.
 Flowers in his home bloom fair,
 The evening taper sparkles clear,
 The intellectual banquet waiteth there,
 Which his heart held so dear.
 The tenderness and grace
 That make religion beautiful, still spread
 Their sainted wings to guard the place—
 Alluring friendship's frequent tread.
 Still seeks the stranger's foot that hospitable door,
But he, the husband and the sire, returneth never more.
His was the upright deed,
 His the unswerving course,
 'Mid every thwarting current's force,
Unchanged by venal aim, or flattery's hollow reed:
 The holy truth walked ever by his side,
And in his bosom dwelt, companion, judge, and guide.
 But when disease revealed
 To his unclouded eye
 The stern destroyer standing nigh,
 Where turned he for a shield?
 Wrapt he the robe of stainless rectitude
Around his breast to meet cold Jordan's flood?
 Grasped he the staff of pride
 His steps through death's dark vale to guide?
 Ah no! self-righteousness he cast aside,
Clasping, with firm and fearless faith, the cross of Him who died.
 Serene, serene,
He pressed the crumbling verge of this terrestrial scene,
 Breathed soft, in childlike trust,
 The parting groan,
 Gave back to dust its dust—
 To heaven its own.