Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/78



can that funeral knell be thine, Thou, at whose image kind So many long-remember'd scenes Come rushing o'er my mind? Thy rural home behind the trees, Thy bowers with roses dress'd, And the bright eye and beaming smile, That cheer'd each entering guest.

There, when our children, hand in hand, Pursued their earnest play, It drew our hearts more closely still, To see their own so gay, And hear their merry laughter ring Around the evening hearth, While the loud threat of winter's storm Broke not their hour of mirth.

'Tis strange that I should seek in vain That mansion, once so fair, And find the spot where erst it stood All desolate and bare; Its smooth green bank, on which so thick The dappled daisies grew— How passing strange, that from its place Even that has vanish'd too.