Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/179

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That seat beneath the mantling vine,

They're lone and empty all : What hand shall pluck the tall green corn,

That ripeneth on the plain ? Since she for whom the board was spread

Must ne'er return again.

Rest, rest, thou Indian maiden,

Nor let thy murmuring shade Grieve that those pale-brow'd ones with scorn

Thy burial rite survey 'd. There's many a king, whose funeral

A black-rob 'd realm shall see, For whom no tear of grief is shed

Like that which falls for thee.

Yea, rest thee, forest maiden !

Beneath thy native tree, The proud may boast their little day,

Then sink to dust, like thee ; But there's many a one, whose funeral

With nodding plumes may be, Whom nature nor affection mourn,

As here they mourn for thee.

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