Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/105



doth mourn for thee. There comes a voice From her far solitudes, as though the winds Murmured low dirges, or the waves complain'd. Even the meek plant, that never sang before, Save one brief requiem, when its blossoms fell, Seems through its drooping leaves to sigh for thee, As for a florist dead. The ivy wreathed Round the gray turrets of a buried race, And the proud palm-trees, that like princes rear Their diadems 'neath Asia's sultry sky, Blend with their ancient lore thy hallowed name.

Thy music, like baptismal dew, did make Whate'er it touched more holy. The pure shell, Pressing its pearly lip to ocean's floor, The cloister'd chambers where the sea-gods sleep, And the unfathom'd, melancholy main, Lament for thee, through all the sounding deeps.

Hark! from sky-piercing Himmaleh, to where Snowdon doth weave his coronet of cloud, From the scath'd pine-tree near the red-man's hut, To where the everlasting banian builds Its vast columnar temple, comes a wail For her who o'er the dim cathedral's arch, The quivering sunbeam on the cottage wall,