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In Memoriam. - Mrs. Georgiana Ives Comstock,
by Lydia Howard SigourneyDied at Hartford, April 30th, 1861, aged 22.
I saw a brilliant bridal.
All that cheers
And charms the leaping heart of youth was there;
And she, the central object of the group,
The cherished song-bird of her father's house,
Array'd in beauty, was the loved of all.
Would I could tell you what a world of flowers
Were concentrated there--how they o'erflow'd
In wreaths and clusters--how they climb'd and swept
From vase to ceiling, with their gay festoons
Whispering each other in their mystic lore
Of fragrance, and consulting how to swell,
As best they might, the tide of happiness.
A few brief moons departed and I sought
The same abode. There was a gather'd throng
Beyond the threshold stone. A few white flowers
Crept o'er a bosom and a gentle hand
That clasp'd them not. A holy hymn awoke
In plaintive melody; but she who breath'd
The very soul of music from her birth,
Lay there with close-seal'd lips.
And the same voice
That in the flushing of the autumnal rose
Gladly pronounced the irrevocable words
"What God hath join'd together let no man
Asunder put," now, in the chasten'd tones
Of deep humility and tenderness,
Strove, from the armory of Heaven, to gird
The hearts that freshly bled.
At close of day,
In the lone, sadden'd hour of musing thought,
I seem'd to view a scene where, side by side,
Bridals and burials gleam'd--the smile and tear--
Anguish and joy--peace in her heavenly vest,
And brazen-throated war--and heard a cry,
"Such is man's life below."
I would have wept,
Save that a symphony of harps unseen
Broke from a hovering cloud; "Lo! we are they
Who from earth's tribulation rose and found
Our robes made white. Henceforth we grieve no more."
List! List! She mingleth in that raptur'd strain
Who said so sweetly to her spirit's-guide,
That the dear Lord whom she had early serv'd
Stood near in her extremity, and gave
Her soul full willingness to leave a world
All bright with beauty, and requited love.
And so Death lost his victory, tho' he snatched
The unwither'd garland out of Hymen's hand,
And wound it in cold mockery round the tomb.