Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/145



Asia hath thy dust, thou who wert born Amid my own wild hillocks, where the voice Of falling waters and of gentle gales Mingle their music. How thy soft dark eye, Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumined smile, Gleam forth upon me when I muse at eve, Mid the bright imagery of earliest years.

Hear I the murmur'd echo of thy name From yon poor forest race? 'Tis meet for them To hoard thy memory as a blessed star, For thou didst seek their lowly homes, and tell Their sad-brow'd children of a Saviour's love, And of a clime where no oppressor comes. Cold winter found thee there, and summer's heat, With zeal unblenching. Though perchance the sneer Might curl some worldling's lip, 'twas not for thee To note its language, or to scorn the soul Of the neglected Indian, or to tread Upon the ashes of his buried kings As on a loathsome weed. Thine own fair halls Lured thee in vain, until the hallow'd church Rear'd its light dome among them, and the voice Of a devoted shepherd, day by day, Call'd back those wanderers to the sheltering fold Of a Redeemer's righteousness.