 | Pocahontas, and other poems |  |
77
FUNERAL OF A NEIGHBOUR.
Ah! 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.
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.
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.
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.
78
But thou, whatever change or cloud
Deform'd this lower sky,
Hadst still a fountain in thy heart
Whose streams were never dry;
A fountain of perennial hope,
That never ceased to flow,
And give its sky-fed crystals forth
To every child of wo.
Deform'd this lower sky,
Hadst still a fountain in thy heart
Whose streams were never dry;
A fountain of perennial hope,
That never ceased to flow,
And give its sky-fed crystals forth
To every child of wo.
Thy frequent visits to my couch,
If sickness paled my cheek,
And all thy sympathetic love,
Which language cannot speak,
How strong those recollections rise
To wake the grateful tear,
For deeds like these more precious grow
With every waning year.
If sickness paled my cheek,
And all thy sympathetic love,
Which language cannot speak,
How strong those recollections rise
To wake the grateful tear,
For deeds like these more precious grow
With every waning year.
I cannot think that bitter grief
Would please thy happy soul,
Raised as thou art to that bless'd world
Where tempests never roll;
But may thy dearest and thy best,
The children of thy care,
Walk steadfast in thy chosen path,
And joyful meet thee there.
Would please thy happy soul,
Raised as thou art to that bless'd world
Where tempests never roll;
But may thy dearest and thy best,
The children of thy care,
Walk steadfast in thy chosen path,
And joyful meet thee there.
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