Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/131



had they sped O'er distant hill and valley, noting much God's goodness in the riches of the land, The summer fruitage, and the harvest hoard, The reaper, wrestling with the bearded wheat, And the proud torrent's glory, when it shakes The everlasting rock, nor yet forgets To sprinkle greenness on the lowliest flower, All trembling at its base. Much, too, they spake Of pleasure 'neath the hospitable roof Of sever'd kindred; how the quicken'd heart Wins, from such meetings, power to wipe away The dust of household care, which sometimes hangs In clouds o'er the clear spirit. But anon The eloquent lip grew silent, for they drew Near that bless'd spot which throws all other lights Into strong shadow—home! At that dear thought The bosom's pulse beat wildly, and the wheels Were all too slow, though scarce the eager steeds Obey'd the rein. And, as the mother spake Somewhat in murmurs of her youngest boy, There came a flood of beauty o'er her brow— For holy love hath beauty—which gray time Could never steal.