But there was one, the chieftain, of that band,
Whose soul no dread, however great, could chill,
His was the towering mind, the mighty hand,
On which, his feeble followers resting, still
Would fear no peril from approaching ill. 
With him the strangers built their rugged home,
And turned the soil, and eat, and drank their fill;
Glad that to this fair Eden they had come,
And reconciled became to their adopted home.

Thus pass’d away in peaceful happiness,
A little space by yonder river’s side,
But now arose the wail of keen distress,
Gaunt Famine, with his murderous eye, they spied,
Stalk round the walls of those who wept and sighed,
And when their venturous chieftain wandered forth,
Ill hap betrayed him to the savage pride,
The death-club rose, his head upon the earth,
To perish there and thus, that man of kingly worth.

Not yet! before that last sad deed be done,
An Indian maiden springs beneath the blow,
And says her virgin blood shall freely run,
For him, extended on the ground below,
See! how, her face upturned, her tears do flow,
See Love and anguish painted in her eyes,
That, like a Seraph’s, in their pity, glow,
And surely Angels, looking from the skies
Claimed this poor savage girl a sister in disguise.

Those eyes, those tears prevent the falling stroke,
For Powhatan could not withstand her tears,
His favorite child, who, charmed, beneath the oak,
His savage spirit from her dawning years,
The wondering white man now he kindly rears,
And bids his menials haste the Indian’s fare
For him whom now his daughter’s love endears,
And lo! within 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.