Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/79

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.

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.

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.