Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/270

 254 THE NATIVE VILLAGE.

When hospitality, with grasp sincere, Led to her board the unexpected guest, And, careless of the pomp of proud array, Or servitude of menials, warmed the heart To social joy.

I do rememher, too,

How, in my early years, yon dome sent forth The daughter, in her bridal loveliness, To wreath fresh roses round a distant home, And stately sons, all strong and bold, to take Their untried portion in this tossing world. From thence the father, to an honoured grave, Was borne and there the mother of the flock, Lovely and loved, as in her day of bloom, Sank meekly on her couch, to rise no more : And the sweet haunts of her sweet ministry Have lost her name for ever. Yet the vine That gadding round her nursery window climbed, Still lives unnurtured. And, methinks, its leaves Thrill with the lore of hoarded memories, Pleasant, yet mournful.

But that ancient race.

With whom our heart's deep reverence dwelt so long, Methinks, at such an hour they seem to stand Again among us even more palpably Than those we call the living. Wait we not At hush of eve for them ? dreaming we hear Their footsteps in the rustle of the leaves,

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