Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/215

214

There was no other child, my dead! To do this deed for thee; Mother! no other nursling babe E'er sat upon thy knee, And, father! that endearing name, No other lips than mine E'er breathed to prompt thy hallow'd prayer At morn or eve's decline.

Tear not those flowers, thou idle child, Tear not the flowers that wave In sweet and simple sanctity Around this humble grave, Lest guardian angels from the skies, That watch amid the gloom, Should dart reproachful ire on those Who desecrate the tomb.

And spare to pluck my sacred plants, Ye groups that wander nigh, When summer sunsets fire with gold The glorious western sky, That, when your sleep is in the dust, Where now your footsteps tread, Some kindred hand may train the rose To grace your lowly bed.