Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/60



ye not seen Him, when through parted snows Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green? When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows, And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen? When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care, Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there?

Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye, Through its bright sapphire-windows shows the mind? When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh, Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined? Saw ye not Him, the author of our trust, Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust?

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill Casts off its icy chains and leaps away? In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill? In songs of birds, at break of summer's day? Or in the ocean's everlasting roar, Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore?

Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn, When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born, And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast,