Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/152



to thy native village, thou, who long Hast been a denizen of richer climes And prouder cities. Nature all adorn'd Welcomes thee back, and, like a peasant-friend Exulting, filleth at her cottage-door The beechen cup, with honey'd balm, for thee. She fain would tell thee tales of every change In her slight drama since thou last wert here, Though none her scene hath shifted, or exchanged Her honest-hearted actors, save gray Time, Scattering the elm-leaves o'er the russet walk, Or to the seedling in its bed of mould, Whispering that spring hath come. She bids thee seek Thy favourite brook, while Memory, ancient crone, Waiteth to point thee where thy tiny boat Or water-wheel sped gayly, or to show The broader pool, upon whose icy glade Thy foot was fleetest, while thy merry voice Rang like a bugle when the shout was high. See'st thou yon blooming creature, sweetly deck'd With all the grace of perfect womanhood? Lo, thou hast taken her ofttimes in thine arms, When but a few brief moons had o'er her roll'd, And sang to please her, though the watchful nurse Was fain to snatch her from thine untaught hand, Fearing thy whisker'd cheek might frighten her.