Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/146

Rh And then Thy path was on the waters, and thy hand Close clasp'd in his who bore so fearless forth The glorious Gospel to those ancient climes Which in the darkness and the shade of death Benighted dwell. Strong ties detain'd thee here: Home—father—sightless mother—sister dear— Brothers and tender friends—a full array Of hope and bliss. But what were those to thee, Who on God's altar laid the thought of self? What were such joys to thee, if duty bade Their crucifixion? Oh! Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Say, do I see thee there? Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod, Or fervent kneeling where his prayer arose, All night on Olivet? or with meek hand Culling from pure Siloam's marge a flower, Whose tender leaflets drink as fresh a dew As when unhumbled Judah wore the crown Of queenly beauty? or with earnest eye Exploring where the shepherd-minstrel kept His father's flock, before the cares that lodge Within the thorn-wreath'd circlet of a king Had turn'd his temples gray? or with sweet smile Reposing, wearied, in thy simple tent By turbid Jordan and the bitter wave Of the Asphaltites? Back to thy place Amid the Syrian vales, to thy loved toils For the forsaken Druses, to the throng