Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/156



boy sat listening to the words That from his mother fell, Pure lessons, wrapp'd in gentle tones, Like music's softest swell.

And oft he mark'd her musing brow, With holy silence bright, And bless'd its placid smile, and deem'd   That angels loved the sight.

Yet when that mother laid her down To rest in mouldering clay, The world's temptations o'er him roll'd,   And swept his faith away.

Like bird that scorns the fowler's snare, He trifled with his fate, Forgot to seek the Spirit's aid, Or for its teachings wait.

Yet once, as in his midnight watch, The lonely deck he paced, With naught but solemn stars above, And, round, old Ocean's waste,