Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/252

 SPEAK NO ILL OF POETRY.

��MORN on her rosy couch awoke,

Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews

That freshen Beauty's flower ; When from her bower of deep delight,

I heard a young girl sing, " O, speak no ill of poetry,

For 'tis a holy thing."

The sun in noon-day heat rose high,

And on with heaving hreast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil,

Unpitied and unblest ; Yet still in trembling measures flow'd

Forth from a broken string, " O, speak no ill of poetry,

For 'tis a holy thing."

Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, 'Mid agony severe,

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