Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/89



the rising tempest moan, My failing limbs have weary grown; The flowers are shut, the streams are dried, The arid sands spread drear and wide, The night dews fall, the winds are high, How far from home, O Lord, am I?

I would not come with hoards of gold, With glittering gems or cumbrous mould, Nor dim my eyes with gather'd dust Of empty fame or earthly trust, But hourly ask, as lone I roam, How far from home? how far from home?

Not far! not far! the way is dark, Fair hope hath quench'd her glow-worm spark; The trees are dead beneath whose shade My youth reclined, my childhood play'd; Red lightning streaks the troubled sky, How far from home, my God, am I?

Oh, find me in that home a place Beneath the footstool of thy grace;