Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/117

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��So, here thou art in ruins, brilliant vase, Beneath my footsteps. Tis a pity, sure, That aught so beautiful should find its fate From careless fingers.

Fain would I divine

Thy history. Who shap'd thy graceful form, And touch'd thy pure, transparent brow with tints Of varied hue, and gave the enamel'd robe, Deep-wrought with gold ?

Thou wert a costly gift. Perchance, a present to a fair young bride, Who, 'mid her wedding-treasures, nicely pack'd Thee in soft cotton, that the jarring wheel, O'er the rough road careering, might not mar Thy symmetry. Within her new abode She proudly plac'd thee, rich with breathing flowers, And, as the magic shell from ocean borne Doth hoard the murmur of its coral-caves, So thou didst tell her twilight-reverie tales

�� �