Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/17

16 The sickness of the heart, the wan despair, Pining for one fresh draught of its dear native air?

Yet, mid their cares, one hallow'd dome they rear’d, To nurse devotion's consecrated flame; And there, a wondering world of forests heard, First borne in solemn chant, Jehovah's name; First temple to his service, refuge dear From strong affliction, and the alien's tear, How swell'd the sacred song, in glad acclaim: England, sweet mother! many a fervent prayer There pour'd its praise to Heaven, for all thy love and care.

And they who 'neath the vaulted roof had bow’d Of some proud minster of the olden time, Or where the vast cathedral toward the cloud Rear'd its dark pile, in symmetry sublime, While through the storied pane the sunbeam play’d, Tinting the pavement with a glorious shade, Now breath'd from humblest fane their ancient chime: And learn'd they not, His presence sure might dwell With every seeking soul, though bow'd in lowliest cell?

Yet not quite unadorned their house of prayer: The fragrant offspring of the genial morn They duly brought; and fondly offer'd there The bud that trembles ere the rose is born, The blue clematis, and the jasmine pale, The scarlet woodbine, waving in the gale, The rhododendron, and the snowy thorn,