Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/172



sweet to gaze upon thy placid brow, My child! my child! like some unfolding bud Of stainless snow-drop. Ah, how sweet to catch Thy gentle breath upon my cheek, and feel The bright redundance of thy silken hair, My beautiful first-born. Life seems more fair Since thou art mine. How soon amid its flowers Thy little feet will gambol by my side, My own pet-lamb. And then to train thee up To be an angel, and to live for God— O glorious hope!"                              Fast fell the tears of joy As the young mother spake.                                              But deep within, A foe was busy at the seat of life, And other language than her own fond hopes Was traced by dire disease. A hollow voice In midnight visions warn'd her of the tomb. The surge roll'd heavy, yet there was a Rock On which her soul found rest when the frail flesh Wasted away.                        "The cup my Father gives, Shall I not drink it?"                                   So she bow'd her down, While the new tie that bound her to the earth So tenderly, was cut—then stretch'd her hand