# Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Bereaved

THE BEREAVED.
"Not my will, but thine."
I had a little blossom, its nursing-root was dead, And in my breast I hid it when its angel mother fled, But at every blast I shudder'd, and I trembled day and night, Lest some unseen destroyer my only bud should blight.
Two years of anxious care, yet of high and sacred joy, Brought forth, in ruddy health, my lovely, blooming boy, With the curls around his head, and the lustre in his eye, And the music on his lip, like a song-bird of the sky.
In wakeful hours I mused, and I wish'd, while others sleep, That, for his precious sake, my wealth was broad and deep; So I forced my lingering mind for a little while to go And gather for my son, where the gold and silver grow.
The old nurse loved my blooming boy, and round her neck he clung With his clasping, ivory arms, and his busy, flattering tongue; She promised to be faithful, with the tear upon her cheek, And I tore myself away as he lay in slumbers meek.
Both night and day I toil'd, while my heart was with the child, And on my every labour propitious Fortune smiled;
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,
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;
O may He grant me grace divine, while on these shores of time, To learn the dialect they speak in yon celestial clime.
Beside his glorious throne they rest, on seraph-harps they play; Why should I wish them back again in these cold tents of clay? A stricken, not a mournful man, I sigh, but not repine, For my heart is in that land of love, with those I hope to join.