Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/106

Or the sere desert, pour'd the lofty chant
And ritual of the muse: who found the link
That joins mute nature to ethereal mind,
And made that link a melody.

                                                   The vales
Of glorious Albion heard thy tuneful fame,
And those green cliffs, where erst the Cambrian bards
Swept their indignant lyres, exulting tell
How oft thy fairy foot in childhood climb'd
Their rude, romantic heights. Yet was the couch
Of thy last slumber in yon verdant isle
Of song, and eloquence, and ardent soul,
Which, loved of lavish skies, though bann'd by fate,
Seem'd as a type of thine own varied lot,
The crown'd of genius, and the child of wo.
For at thy breast the ever-pointed thorn
Did gird itself in secret, mid the gush
Of such unstain'd, sublime, impassion'd song,
That angels, poising on some silver cloud,
Might listen mid the errands of the skies,
And linger all unblamed.

                                            How tenderly
Doth Nature draw her curtain round thy rest,
And like a nurse, with finger on her lip,
Watch that no step disturb thee, and no hand
Profane thy sacred harp. Methinks she waits
Thy waking, as some cheated mother hangs
O'er the pale babe, whose spirit death hath stolen,
And laid it, dreaming, on the lap of Heaven.