Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/159

158 And feed our souls on manna, till they loathe Their household bread? To traverse all unblamed Broad realms, more bright than fabled Araby; To hear unearthly music; to inhale Ambrosial fragrance from the spicy groves That never fade; to see the tyrant tomb Unlock its treasure-valve, and freely yield The loved, the lost, back to our glad embrace; To catch clear glimpses of the streets of gold, And harpers harping mid the eternal hills, These are the pastimes which the mind doth take While its poor clay companion slumbers deep, Weary and worn. If thou in wintry climes Shouldst exiled roam, thy very heart's blood chill'd, Lay but thy cold hand on a winged dream, And it shall bear thee straight with bounding pulse To drink the sunbeams of thine own blue skies, Where the young cottage children freely fill Their pinafores with flowers. Should ocean swell, Or the eternal mountains stretch their bars 'Tween thee and thy loved home, how strangely sweet To touch the talisman of dreams, and sit Again on thine own sofa, hand in hand With the most loved, thy children near thy side At their untiring play, the shaded lamp Shedding its quiet beam, while now and then The clock upon the mantelpiece doth speak, To register the diamond sands of time, Made brighter by thy joys.