Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/99

Which, round the hearth-stone rooting, have their fruit
Where men are judged?
                                         He linger'd with you late,
Till all the loved companions of his youth
Had gone to rest. Yet so he loved your souls,
That for their sakes he willingly sustain'd
Life's toil and cumbrance, and stood forth alone,
An aged oak, amid the fallen grove.

—His Master call'd.
                                    It was the Sabbath morn:
And he had girded up his loins to speak
A message in the Temple. Time had strown
The almond-blossom, and his head was white
As snows of winter, yet his step was firm,
And in his heart the same unblenching zeal
That warm'd his youth.
                                        But, lo! the Master call'd.
So, laying down the Bible that he loved,
That single weapon he so meek had borne
Through all life's tribulation, he gave back
The spirit to its Giver, and went home;
Yes, full of honours as of days, went home.