Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/103

 FUNERAL OF MAZEEN,

��OF INDIANS.

��'Mir> the trodden turf is an open grave,

And a funeral train, where the wild flowers wave,

For a manly sleeper doth seek his bed

In the narrow house of the sacred dead :

Yet scantly the damp soil hath drank of the tear,

For the red-brow'd few are the weepers here.

They have lower 'd the prince to his resting-spot ; The white man hath pray'd, but they heed it not, For their abject thoughts 'mid those ashes grope, And quench 'd in their souls is the light of hope ; Know ye their pangs who turn away The vassal foot from their monarch's clay ?

With the dust of kings in this noteless shade, The last of a royal line is laid, In whose stormy veins that current roll'd Which curb'd the chief and the warrior bold ; Yet pride still burns in their humid clay, Though the pomp of the sceptre hath pass'd away.

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