Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/The Pilgrim
THE PILGRIM.
"I am not far from home, therefore I need not make much provision for the way."
I hear the rising tempest moan,
My failing limbs have weary grown;
The flowers are shut, the streams are dried,
The arid sands spread drear and wide,
The night dews fall, the winds are high,
How far from home, O Lord, am I?
I would not come with hoards of gold,
With glittering gems or cumbrous mould,
Nor dim my eyes with gather'd dust
Of empty fame or earthly trust,
But hourly ask, as lone I roam,
How far from home? how far from home?
Not far! not far! the way is dark,
Fair hope hath quench'd her glow-worm spark;
The trees are dead beneath whose shade
My youth reclined, my childhood play'd;
Red lightning streaks the troubled sky,
How far from home, my God, am I?
Oh, find me in that home a place
Beneath the footstool of thy grace;
Though sometimes mid the husks I fed,
And turn'd me from the children's bread,
Still bid thine angel-harps resound,
The dead doth live, the lost is found.
Reach forth thy hand with pitying care,
And guide me through the latest snare;
Methinks, even now, in bursting beams
The radiance from thy casement streams;
No more I shed the pilgrim tear;
I hear thy voice, my home is near.