Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/209

The Master call'd! the mother heard:
"Come hither!" was the solemn word.
      Bright shone the noonday sun,
The undrain'd cup still glow'd with sparkling zest,
She clasp'd her pure hands o'er her breast,
      "Thy will be done."

In the fresh summer of her years
She kiss'd away her nursling's tears,
And laid him, lull'd to quiet rest,
Upon her blooming daughter's breast.

Pain probed her nerves to Torture's pang,
The fibrous heart-strings rent and rang,
Yet peace, that of her soul was part,
Look'd through her eye, and foil'd the dart
      That rankled there,
And Faith the Saviour's image drew,
Wiping away the deathful dew
      With words of prayer.

On a high arm and strong,
      Her soul its burden cast,
While soaring, soaring high,
The weakness of mortality
Fell like a dried leaf on the blast,
And with a conqueror's song
      Heaven's gate she pass'd.