Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/147

146 Of heathen babes, who on thine accents hang As on a mother's; for the time is short. Perils upon the waters wait for thee, And then another Jordan, from whose flood Is no return. But thou, with lip so pale, Didst take the song of triumph, and go down Alone and fearless through its depths profound. Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad, Even to thy latest gasp. Therefore the grief Born at thy grave is not like other grief. Tears mix with joy. We praise our God for thee.