Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/107

Rh Said we that thou art dead? We dare not. No. For every mountain, stream, or shady dell Where thy rich echoes linger, claim thee still, Their own undying one. To thee was known Alike the language of the fragile flower And of the burning stars. God taught it thee. So, from thy living intercourse with man, Thou shalt not pass, until the weary earth Drops her last gem into the doomsday flame. Thou hast but taken thy seat with that bless'd choir, Whose harmonies thy spirit learn'd so well Through this low, darken'd casement, and so long Interpreted for us.

Why should we say Farewell to thee, since every unborn age Shall mix thee with its household charities? The hoary sire shall bow his deafen'd ear, And greet thy sweet words with his benison; The mother shrine thee as a vestal flame In the lone temple of her sanctity; And the young child who takes thee by the hand, Shall travel with a surer step to Heaven.