Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/113

112 What holy triumph of exulting faith, He saw fresh blooming in her wither'd arms A fair young babe, the heir of all his wealth. Forever blending with that speechless joy Which thrill'd his soul, when first a father's name Fell on his ear, is that pale, placid brow O'er which he weeps. Yet had he seen it wear Another semblance, tinged with hues of thought, Perchance unlovely, in that trial-hour, When to sad Hagur's mute, reproachful eye He answer'd naught, but on her shoulder laid The water-bottle and the loaf, and sent Her and her son, unfriended wanderers, forth Into the wilderness. Say, who can mourn Over the smitten idol, by long years Cemented with his being, yet perceive No dark remembrance that he fain would blot, Troubling the tear. If there were no kind deed Omitted, no sweet healing word of love Expected, yet unspoken; no light tone That struck discordant on the shivering nerve, For which the weeper fain would rend the tomb To cry forgive! oh, let him kneel and praise God amid all his grief. We may not say If aught of penitence was in the pang That wrung the labouring breast, while o'er the dust Of Sarah, at Macpelah's waiting tomb, The proud and princely Abraham bow'd him down, A mourning stranger, mid the sons of Heth.