Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/113

What holy triumph of exulting faith,
He saw fresh blooming in her wither'd arms
A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth.
Forever blending with that speechless joy
Which thrill'd his soul, when first a father's name
Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow
O'er which he weeps.
                                     Yet had he seen it wear
Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought,
Perchance unlovely, in that trial-hour,
When to sad Hagur's mute, reproachful eye
He answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laid
The water-bottle and the loaf, and sent
Her and her son, unfriended wanderers, forth
Into the wilderness.
                                    Say, who can mourn
Over the smitten idol, by long years
Cemented with his being, yet perceive
No dark remembrance that he fain would blot,
Troubling the tear. If there were no kind deed
Omitted, no sweet healing word of love
Expected, yet unspoken; no light tone
That struck discordant on the shivering nerve,
For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb
To cry forgive! oh, let him kneel and praise
God amid all his grief.
                                       We may not say
If aught of penitence was in the pang
That wrung the labouring breast, while o'er the dust
Of Sarah, at Macpelah's waiting tomb,
The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down,
A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth.