Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/141



on the couch of pain, there lay a child Of some few summers. The dense city's roofs Throng'd thick around her, and the vertic sun Pour'd from those glowing tiles a fervid heat Upon her shrinking nerves. Sad she retraced The rural scenes where her young childhood grew, And wishfully her pale lips shaped the sound Of home, sweet home. "Dear mother, take me there, To that first home. The early flowers that sprung Beside the garden walk, and those tall trees, Would I might see them but once more, and touch The pleasant vine that o'er my window climb'd. I could breathe freer there." And so they raised The languid child, for how could they deny Her last heart-yearning? and with mournful tears Wrapp'd as a traveller her whom Death had seal'd For his returnless journey. Swift the boat Shot o'er the river-tide, and then the wheel, Careful yet tedious, mark'd the well-known track O'er hill and valley. Patiently she bore The weary travel, and when sunset brought The well-remember'd haunt, upraised her head, And with a tremulous and tender tone