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 charities, by wearing wonted charms,
But lose for aye their balm for summer hours;
So all her showery grief him no more charms,
To spring and rest a joy in her exulting arms.

She deems he sleeps within the envious ground,
Which stole him early from her young, warm breast,
No more her brow with wild flower wreaths is bound,
And all her ornaments, neglected, rest;
Since fled is now the dreamy hope which blest
Her artless soul, she loathes her glance to fling
On corals, braids, and flowers, and royal vest,
And slowly wanders like some moon-struck thing,
Through gloomy cypress groves, and by yon haunted spring.

But time must soothe the most exquisite smart
Of love, when wounded by the dart of death;
For life would flee, should not such woe depart,
Too deeply weighing on the heart beneath. 
Fair Pocahontas breathes the wonted breath
Of tranquil life, a creature darkly bright,
Decking her hair again with many a wreath,
Walking amid the high wood’s gentle night,
Charming her wild, old Father’s heart with strange delight.

Yet nought could make her cease to view with love,
The tender memory of the mournful past;
And once when warring clouds grew black above,
The shrieking Earth with awful night o’ercast,
And long foiled Hatred hoped to glut his fast
With English gore, with irksome steps she stole,
O’er deep morass, through tangled brake, and cast
The boon of life to each devoted soul,
Who slept within that Castle’s frail and weak control.

Oh! we might marvel that her savage heart,
Would show such love to her loved father’s foes;
But love like this, will act no selfish part;
Over drear earth, diffusing joy, it goes,
Its breath the fragrance of the earliest rose,
Its voice the sound of an unearthly thing,
Its form an Angel’s, and as pure as those,
Who come to gladdened man on shining wing,
Which scatters round the sweets of an immortal spring.