Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/220



dwellers on the stable land, Of danger what know ye, Like us who brave the whelming surge, Or trust the treacherous sea? The fair trees shade you from the sun, You see the harvests grow, And breathe the fragrance of the breeze When the first roses blow.

You slumber on your beds of down, Close wrapp'd, in chambers warm, Lull'd only to a deeper dream By the descending storm; While high amid the slippery shroud We make our midnight path, And e'en the strongest mast is bow'd   Beneath the tempest's wrath.

Yet still, what know ye of the joy That lights our ocean-strife, When on its way our gallant ship Rides like a thing of life; When gayly towards the wish'd-for port With favouring wind we stand, Or first your misty line descry, Hills of our native land!