Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/300

 284 THE BEREAVED FATHER.

For I know, when heaven hath wounded and prob'd the

bleeding breast, Its richest, healing balm is, in making others blest.

The poor man he doth thank me, and the orphan's grate- ful prayer

Breathes sweetly o'er my lonely soul, and soothes away its care,

In the sick peasant's cabin the gift he needs I lay,

And, ere he seeks the giver, I vanish far away.

I have a sacred joy, close lock'd from mortal eye

My lov'd ones come to visit me, when lost in dreams

I lie, They speak such words to charm me as only angels

say, And the beauty of their robes of light beams round me

through the day.

God is their keeper, and their friend, their bliss no tongue

can tell, And more I love His holy name that in His home they

dwell, O may He grant me grace divine, while on these shores of

ti m e, To learn the dialect they speak in yon celestial clime.

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