Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/107

Said we that thou art dead? We dare not. No.
For every mountain, stream, or shady dell
Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still,
Their own undying one. To thee was known
Alike the language of the fragile flower
And of the burning stars. God taught it thee.
So, from thy living intercourse with man,
Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth
Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame.
Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir,
Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well
Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long
Interpreted for us.

                                  Why should we say
Farewell to thee, since every unborn age
Shall mix thee with its household charities?
The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear,
And greet thy sweet words with his benison;
The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame
In the lone temple of her sanctity;
And the young child who takes thee by the hand,
Shall travel with a surer step to Heaven.