Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/67

Then I homeward set my face, when the spring-flowers 'gan to blow—
O for an eagle's pinion! the flying car, how slow.

I brought the baubles that he loved, the tiny gilded drum,
The crimson-banner'd host, that to mimic battle come,
The Argonautic shells, that sail in pearly fleet,
And, in its pretty cage, the bright-winged paroquet.

My trees! my roof! I knew them well, though midnight's veil was drear,
The pale nurse-lamp was flickering within the nursery dear,
But a muffled watcher started thence at my impatient tread,
And there my darling lay, on his white mattress-bed.

How still! My God, is there no voice? And has it come to this!
The white lip quivereth not to my impassion'd kiss!
'Tis a coldness like the grave! My idol! can it be?
O Father, from thy throne above, in mercy look on me.

They told me how the fever raged, and, in his broken dream,
How he call'd upon the absent, with shrill and frantic scream,
How he set his teeth on cup and spoon, with hated medicine fraught,
But at his father's treasured name, he took the bitterest draught.

God gave me strength to make his bed where his young mother slept,
The fragrant vines she used to train around her feet had crept,