Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Request of the Dying Child
REQUEST OF THE DYING CHILD.
Stretch'd on the couch of pain, there lay a child
Of some few summers. The dense city's roofs
Throng'd thick around her, and the vertic sun
Pour'd from those glowing tiles a fervid heat
Upon her shrinking nerves. Sad she retraced
The rural scenes where her young childhood grew,
And wishfully her pale lips shaped the sound
Of home, sweet home.
"Dear mother, take me there,
To that first home. The early flowers that sprung
Beside the garden walk, and those tall trees,
Would I might see them but once more, and touch
The pleasant vine that o'er my window climb'd.
I could breathe freer there."
And so they raised
The languid child, for how could they deny
Her last heart-yearning? and with mournful tears
Wrapp'd as a traveller her whom Death had seal'd
For his returnless journey.
Swift the boat
Shot o'er the river-tide, and then the wheel,
Careful yet tedious, mark'd the well-known track
O'er hill and valley. Patiently she bore
The weary travel, and when sunset brought
The well-remember'd haunt, upraised her head,
And with a tremulous and tender tone
Hail'd each familiar object. It would seem
As if, indulgent to her fond request,
Death waited for her. Though the thread-like pulse
Stirr'd not the ivory arm, and the poor heart
Scarce forced the life-tide oozing drop by drop,
Yet still Death waited for her.
One full hour
She lay within his icy arms, and drew
In deep, long, quivering gasps her native air.
He waited for her while she grasp'd the flowers,
The fresh wild-flowers that bloom'd where she was born,
And while she gazed upon the waving trees,
And press'd the fragrant vine-leaves to her brow,
But then he coldly beckon'd her away:
And so she meekly kiss'd her mother's lips,
And went to rest.
How sweet that home to thee
From whence is no departure, peaceful child!
And where no pilgrim with his dusty staff
Toils just to gaze upon its blissful gate,
Then turn and die.
And they who fed thee here
With love's rich balm-cup, let it be their joy,
Their hymn of gratulation night and day,
That thou art gather'd with the pure in heart,
Back to thy natural element again.