Pocahontas

221

POCAHONTAS.

́EARIED arm and broken sword

WWage in vain the desperate fight:

Round him press a countless horde,
He is but a single knight.
Hark, a cry of triumph shrill

Through the wilderness resounds,
As with twenty bleeding wounds
Sinks the warrior fighting still.

Now they heap the fatal pyre,

And the torch of death they light; Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!

Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien and proud, And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart?
Who avert the murderous blade?
From the throng, with sudden start,
See there springs an Indian maid.
Quick she stands before the knight:
"Loose the chain, unbind the ring;
I am daughter of the king,
And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life!

In the wood of Powhattan,
Still 'tis told by Indian fires,
How a daughter of their sires
Saved the captive Englishman.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR

AIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon:
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.
Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day
Has run

But to the evensong;
And, having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a Spring,
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or any thing.
We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away

Like to the Summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick.

ATHER ye rosebuds as ye may,
GOld Time is still a-flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun.
The higher he's a-getting,

The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

The age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick.

T

THE WAR HORSE.

HE fiery courser, when he hears from far

The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war, Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight, Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight.

On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined,
Ruffles at speed, and dances in the wind.
Eager he stands then, starting with a bound,
He turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground;
Fire from his eyes, clouds from his nostrils flow,
He bears his rider headlong on the foe.

John Dryden (from Virgil.)

L

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home-
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent,

The night is gone;

till

And with the morn those angel faces smile

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

John Henry Newman.

My Life is like the Summer Rose 225

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.

life is like the summer rose,

MY That opens to the morning sky,
MThat

But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground-to die!
Yet on the rose's humble bed

The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As though she wept such waste to see-
But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray:
Its hold is frail-its date is brief,

Restless and soon to pass away!
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree-
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea-
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
Richard Henry Wilde.