Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/128

Rh For sure it were an ingrate's deed To murmur or repine, That such a life, my sire, was closed By such as death as thine.

But thou, our God, who know'st our frame, Whose shield is o'er us spread, When every idol of our love Is desolate and dead, Father and mother may forsake, Yet be Thou still our trust, And let thy chastenings cleanse the soul From vanity and dust.