Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LOST SISTER, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LOST SISTER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: They waked me from my sleep, I knew not why
Last Line: Which rent thee from me.
Subject(s): Death - Children; Death - Babies


THEY waked me from my sleep, I knew not why,
And bade me hasten where a midnight lamp
Gleamed from an inner chamber. There she lay,
With brow so pale, who yester-morn breathed forth
Through joyous smiles her superflux of bliss
Into the hearts of others. By her side
Her hoary sire, with speechless sorrow, gazed
Upon the stricken idol,—all dismayed
Beneath his God's rebuke. And she who nursed
That fair young creature at her gentle breast,
And oft those sunny locks had decked with buds
Of rose and jasmine, shuddering wiped the dews
Which death distills.
The sufferer just had given
Her long farewell, and for the last, last time
Touched with cold lips his cheek who led so late
Her footsteps to the altar, and received
In the deep transport of an ardent heart
Her vow of love. And she had striven to press
That golden circlet with her bloodless hand
Back on his finger, which he kneeling gave
At the bright bridal morn. So there she lay
In calm endurance, like the smitten lamb
Wounded in flowery pastures, from whose breast
The dreaded bitterness of death had passed.
—But a faint wail disturbed the silent scene,
And in its nurse's arms a new-born babe
Was borne in utter helplessness along,
Before that dying eye.
Its gathered film
Kindled one moment with a sudden glow
Of tearless agony,—and fearful pangs,
Racking the rigid features, told how strong
A mother's love doth root itself. One cry
Of bitter anguish, blent with fervent prayer,
Went up to Heaven,—and, as its cadence sank,
Her spirit entered there.
Morn after morn
Rose and retired; yet still as in a dream
I seemed to move. The certainty of loss
Fell not at once upon me. Then I wept
As weep the sisterless.—For thou wert fled,
My only, my beloved, my sainted one,—
Twin of my spirit! and my numbered days
Must wear the sable of that midnight hour
Which rent thee from me.





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