Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/202

The daughter in her bridal loveliness,
To wreathe fresh roses round a distant home,
And stately sons, all strong and bold, to take
Their untried portion in this tossing world.
From thence the father to an honour'd grave
Was borne; and there the mother of the flock,
Lovely and loved as in her day of bloom,
Sank meekly on her couch to rise no more:
And the sweet haunts of her sweet ministry
Have lost her name forever. Yet the vine
That gadding round her nursery-window climb'd,
Still lives unnurtured; and methinks its leaves
Thrill with the lore of hoarded memories,
Pleasant, yet mournful.
                                        But that ancient race,
With whom our heart's deep reverence dwelt so long,
Methinks at such an hour they seem to stand
Again among us, even more palpably
Than those we call the living. Wait we not
At hush of eve for them? dreaming we hear
Their footsteps in the rustle of the leaves,
Or their low whisper, warning us to seek
A home not made with hands?
                                                  So may it be;
And to that home eternal every one
Who here were rapt in the frank fellowship
Of simpler days, and mourn its loss with tears,
Be gather'd, where no more the blight of ill,
Or fear of change, or sigh of pain shall steal
O'er the pure mingling of congenial souls.