Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/77



saith that poesy waxeth old, That all her legends were long since told? It is not so! it is not so! For while there's a stream in its crystal hall, A sprig of ivy to climb the wall, A sun to rise, or a star to fall, She'll find something new to describe, I know.

Who saith that her songs were long since sung, And learn'd by rote when the world was young? It is not so! it is not so! For while there's a blossom by summer drest, A sigh for the sad, or a smile for the blest, Or a changeful thought in the human breast, There'll be a new string for her lyre, I trow.

What she was when the timbrel of Miriam rang, When the sightless Homer to Helle sang, Such, such is she now,—all fair and young.