Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/159

And feed our souls on manna, till they loathe
Their household bread?
                                       To traverse all unblamed
Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby;
To hear unearthly music; to inhale
Ambrosial fragrance from the spicy groves
That never fade; to see the tyrant tomb
Unlock its treasure-valve, and freely yield
The loved, the lost, back to our glad embrace;
To catch clear glimpses of the streets of gold,
And harpers harping mid the eternal hills,
These are the pastimes which the mind doth take
While its poor clay companion slumbers deep,
Weary and worn.
                             If thou in wintry climes
Shouldst exiled roam, thy very heart's blood chill'd,
Lay but thy cold hand on a winged dream,
And it shall bear thee straight with bounding pulse
To drink the sunbeams of thine own blue skies,
Where the young cottage children freely fill
Their pinafores with flowers.
                                                 Should ocean swell,
Or the eternal mountains stretch their bars
'Tween thee and thy loved home, how strangely sweet
To touch the talisman of dreams, and sit
Again on thine own sofa, hand in hand
With the most loved, thy children near thy side
At their untiring play, the shaded lamp
Shedding its quiet beam, while now and then
The clock upon the mantelpiece doth speak,
To register the diamond sands of time,
Made brighter by thy joys.