Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/222

 206 THE MOURNING LOVER.

Had lost its essence, and the viol's voice

Gave but a sorrowing sound. Even her loved plants

Breathed too distinctly of the form that bent

With hers, to watch their budding. 'Mid their flowers,

And, through the twining of their pensile stems,

The semblance of a cold, dead hand would rise,

And so, she bade them droop and pass away

With him she mourned.

Yet still, with widowed heart She parted out her pittance to the poor, Sat by the bed of sickness, dried the tear Of the forgotten weeper, and enrob'd Herself in mercy, like the Bride of Heaven.

Years pass'd away, and still she seemed unchanged. The principle of beauty hath no age ; It looketh forth, even though the eye be dim, The forehead frost-crowned, yea, it looketh forth, Wherever there doth dwell a tender soul, That in its chastened cheerfulness would shed Sweet charity on all whom God hath made.

Years pass'd away, and, 'mid such holy toils The hermit-heart found rest. Each night it seemed, When to her lonely, prayerful couch she turn'd, As if an angel folded his pure wing Around her breast, inspiring her to keep A saint's endurance.

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