Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Seed for Heaven
SEED FOR HEAVEN.
The boy sat listening to the words
That from his mother fell,
Pure lessons, wrapp'd in gentle tones,
Like music's softest swell.
And oft he mark'd her musing brow,
With holy silence bright,
And bless'd its placid smile, and deem'd
That angels loved the sight.
Yet when that mother laid her down
To rest in mouldering clay,
The world's temptations o'er him roll'd,
And swept his faith away.
Like bird that scorns the fowler's snare,
He trifled with his fate,
Forgot to seek the Spirit's aid,
Or for its teachings wait.
Yet once, as in his midnight watch,
The lonely deck he paced,
With naught but solemn stars above,
And, round, old Ocean's waste,
Methought her warning voice, who long
'Neath the cold sods had slept,
Spake forth from every rushing wave
That on resistless swept;
Methought a teardrop, like her own,
Fell from the gathering cloud,
That round the slowly-rising moon
Had wreath'd its silver shroud;
Methought the searching eye of God
Flamed in his secret soul,
And down the proud man bow'd, with tears,
To own its strong control:
The Saviour's lowly yoke he took,
His flinty heart was riven,
And so the seed his mother sow'd
Brought forth rich fruit for Heaven.