Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/229

228 Till humbled at his Saviour's feet In penitence he lay, And felt his pagan passions fleet On prayer's soft breath away.

Stern sickness rack'd his aged frame, Unwonted torpor stole, And death all unresisted came To claim the ransom'd soul, Which, spreading wide a wondering wing, With song of triumph past From vengeful winter's sharpest sting, High o'er the shrieking blast.

Red torches pierced the midnight gloom As with the dead they hied, And burst Beata's stony tomb To lay him by her side; The lip so oft her sire that blest, No filial welcome gave, As brow to brow, and breast to breast, They fill'd that frost-bound grave.

Strange music mid the funeral rite! Sad dirges, soft and slow! Whence cometh, in this realm of night, Such melody of wo? A chapel-bell! Who bids it speak In this forsaken bourne? And thus, with Sabbath sweetness, break The trance of those who mourn?