Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/68

But I cut their roots away, that the bud she loved the best
Might spread its wither'd petals upon her pulseless breast.

And now I wander wide beneath a foreign sky,
In the stranger's home I lodge, for no household hearth have I,
There are gray hairs on my temples, despite my early years,
But I find there's still a comfort in drying others' tears.

Why should I cloud my brow? why yield to dark despair?
All—all men are my brethren, and this fruitful earth is fair,
For I know, when heaven hath wounded and probed the bleeding breast,
Its richest, healing balm is, in making others bless'd.

The poor man he doth thank me, and the orphan's grateful prayer
Breathes sweetly o'er my lonely soul, and sooths away its care;
In the sick peasant's cabin the gift he needs I lay,
And, ere he knows the giver, I vanish far away.

I have a sacred joy, close lock'd from mortal eye,
My loved ones come to visit me when lost in dreams I lie;
They speak such words to charm me as only angels say,
And the beauty of their robes of light gleams round me through the day.

God is their keeper, and their friend, their bliss no tongue can tell,
And more I love His holy name that in His home they dwell;