Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/220

 204

��A Spartan spirit, nobly proud, Beam'd from her pallid face,

Her glorious boy to death had bow'd, But not to dire disgrace.

She bore him to his favourite room ;

His childhood's couch she spread ; And press 'd her white lips to his brow,

But not a word she said.

Yet ere again the brightening morn

O'er Erin's hills arose, The mother and the son were join'd

In death's profound repose.

�� �