Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/25

24 Which nerv'd the weary dove o'er floods unbless’d The olive-leaf to pluck, and gain the ark of rest.

Pour forth your incense; fragrant shrubs and flowers, Wave your fresh leaflets, and with beauty glow; And wake the anthem in your choral bowers, Birds, whose warm hearts with living praise o'erflow; For she who loved your ever-varied dyes, Mingling her sweet tones with your symphonies, Seeks higher bliss than charms like yours bestow— A home unchangeable—an angel's wing— Where is no fading flower, nor lute with jarring string.

Another change. The captive's lot grew fair: A soft illusion with her reveries blent, New charms dispell'd her solitary care, And hope's fresh dew-drops gleam'd where'er she went; Earth seem'd to glow with Eden's purple light, The fleeting days glanced by on pinions bright, And every hour a rainbow lustre lent; While, with his tones of music in her ear, Love's eloquence inspired the high-born cavalier.

Yet love to her pure breast was but a name For kindling knowledge, and for taste refined, A guiding lamp, whose bright mysterious flame Led on to loftier heights the aspiring mind. Hence flow'd the idiom of a foreign tongue All smoothly o'er her lip; old history flung Its annal wide, like banner on the wind,