Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/161



was a new-made grave, On a far heathen shore, Where lonely slept a man of God, His mission-service o'er; There, when the setting sun Had tinged the west with flame, A tender infant in her arms, A mournful woman came.

Her youthful cheek was pale, Her fair form bending low, As thus upon the fitful gale She pour'd her plaint of wo: "Friend of my inmost soul,   The turf is on thy breast, And here amid the stranger's land    Thy precious dust must rest.

"Our helpless babe I bring,   Who knew no father's love, Nor look'd upon this world of pain    Till thou hadst risen above; I lay him on thy bed,    Unconscious tears to weep, Before our last farewell we take,    And dare the faithless deep.