Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/142

Hail'd each familiar object. It would seem
As if, indulgent to her fond request,
Death waited for her. Though the thread-like pulse
Stirr'd not the ivory arm, and the poor heart
Scarce forced the life-tide oozing drop by drop,
Yet still Death waited for her.
                                                 One full hour
She lay within his icy arms, and drew
In deep, long, quivering gasps her native air.
He waited for her while she grasp'd the flowers,
The fresh wild-flowers that bloom'd where she was born,
And while she gazed upon the waving trees,
And press'd the fragrant vine-leaves to her brow,
But then he coldly beckon'd her away:
And so she meekly kiss'd her mother's lips,
And went to rest.
                             How sweet that home to thee
From whence is no departure, peaceful child!
And where no pilgrim with his dusty staff
Toils just to gaze upon its blissful gate,
Then turn and die.
                               And they who fed thee here
With love's rich balm-cup, let it be their joy,
Their hymn of gratulation night and day,
That thou art gather'd with the pure in heart,
Back to thy natural element again.