Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/123



teacheth thee to mourn, O friend beloved; Thou art its pupil now. The lowest class, The first beginners in its school, may learn How to rejoice. The sycamore's broad leaf, Thrill'd by the breeze, the humblest grass-bird's nest, Murmur of gladness, and the wondering babe, Borne by its nurse out in the open fields, Knoweth that lesson. The wild mountain-stream That throws by fits its gushing music forth, The careless sparrow, happy, though the frosts Nip his light foot, have learn'd the simple lore How to rejoice. Mild Nature teacheth it To all her innocent works. But God alone Instructeth how to mourn. He doth not trust This highest lesson to a voice or hand Subordinate. Behold! He cometh forth! O sweet disciple, bow thyself to learn The alphabet of tears. Receive the lore, Sharp though it be, to an unanswering breast, A will subdued. And may such wisdom spring From these rough rudiments, that thou shalt gain A class more noble, and, advancing, soar Where the sole lesson is a seraph's praise. Yea, be a docile scholar, and so rise Where mourning hath no place.