Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/146

                                                      And then
Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand
Close clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forth
The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes
Which in the darkness and the shade of death
Benighted dwell.
                                Strong ties detain'd thee here:
Home—father—sightless mother—sister dear—
Brothers and tender friends—a full array
Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee,
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self?
What were such joys to thee, if duty bade
Their crucifixion?
                               Oh! Jerusalem!
Jerusalem! Say, do I see thee there?
Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod,
Or fervent kneeling where his prayer arose,
All night on Olivet? or with meek hand
Culling from pure Siloam's marge a flower,
Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew
As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown
Of queenly beauty? or with earnest eye
Exploring where the shepherd-minstrel kept
His father's flock, before the cares that lodge
Within the thorn-wreath'd circlet of a king
Had turn'd his temples gray? or with sweet smile
Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent
By turbid Jordan and the bitter wave
Of the Asphaltites?
                                Back to thy place
Amid the Syrian vales, to thy loved toils
For the forsaken Druses, to the throng