the Lion's horrid lair,
The Dove has brought her mate, and sees him unhurt there.

Oh Love! how powerful o'er all thou art,
In dusky breasts or breasts of whiter hue,
To thy delicious touch the human heart
Throbs with respondent transport ever true.
On Love's swift wings, this Indian virgin flew,
To snatch from hateful death the lovely chief,
Love drew her tears, like showers of pearly dew,
Love filled her passionate breast with tender grief
And love still drinks her soul, and naught can give relief.

She decks her long, black hair with gayest flowers
And tries each girlish art to warm his breast,
And, straying oft, among the leafy bowers,
Whilst Luna's silvery smiles upon them rest,
And Earth sleeps deeply, in that beauty drest,
The lonely Muckawiss[B], with doleful strain,
Pities her fate--alas, she is not blest,
But hopes and doubts, and dares to hope again,
That Smith may love, and ne'er is free from love's soft pain.

And fair was she, the dim wood's lustrous child,
Though born amid a race of uncouth men,
And gentle as the fawn, which, through the wild,
Trembled with timorous haste, and fled, and when
She stood within the rude and silent glen,
Of deepest forests, she appear'd more bright,
Than other nymphs who roamed these regions then,
And now--for o'er her form and sylph-like waist,
A native modesty entranced the most fastidious taste.

He whom she loved to all these charms was cold,
Though well he saw her bosom's gentle fire,
Stern is the soul that worships fame or gold,
To all that softer ecstacies inspire.
A stony heart these tyrants e'er require,
Brave Smith ne'er thought of Pocahontas' love,
But only that his name would glitter higher
In coming centuries, others' names above,
Whose soon contented souls an humbler distance rove.

To cheat her pining soul of this dear dream,
They told a dreary tale that he had died,
While to her father's hut, like some fair gleam
Of sunlight, with some heavenly thought, she hied,
And now both day and night, how sorely sighed,
And inly groaned the poor bereaved maid,
Nor could restrain strong nature's gushing tide,
That in the dark, cold grave, her love was laid;--
Disconsolate, she moved along the leafy glade.

Pausing beside her Smith's imagined tomb,
Weeping, by moonlight pale, she strewed fair flowers,
To wither o'er him, emblems of his bloom
So soon departed from these lovely bowers.
Once plucked, these buds will never bless the showers,
Sweet charitie