Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/210



of the boisterous wave, Not of the tempest's power, Not of the rent and cleaving bark, Speak at this sacred hour.

God of the trusting soul! God of the traveller, hear! And from our parting cup of love Wring out these dregs of fear.

Art thou a God at home, Where the bright fireside smiles, And not abroad, upon the deep, Mid danger's deadliest wiles?

What though the eyes so dear To distant regions turn, Their tender language in our hearts Like vestal flame shall burn.

What though the voice beloved Respond not to our pain, We'll shut its music in the soul Until we meet again.