Classic Poem

Now through the realms of Powhatàn,
Borne inland from the bay,
A strange and sudden rumor ran,
More strange than words could say;

Of barks that from the outer seas
Through the wide waters sped,
With masts that towered like forest trees,
And wings of white outspread.

Of bearded, pale-faced men, who came
From ocean's utmost bound,
With weapons of the lightning flame
And the dread thunder's sound.

Men of strange speech and aspect bold,
In garments bravely wrought,
With glittering gifts and wealth untold,
From far-off regions brought.

And one, whose blue eye proudly beamed,
With high, commanding glance,
Who led the others, and who seemed
A mighty Werowance.

Such was the tale, and furthermore,
That this mysterious band
Had anchored by the river's shore,
And there possessed the land.

These things, within his forest bower,
Heard Powhatàn; straightway
Against this new, encroaching power
He knew his war-path lay.

He felt no dread, though threescore years
Round him their storms had spent,
His stout heart had no room for fears,
His knee had never bent.

Not on his shore a race unknown
With ampler sway should spring,
Than his he brooked no loftier throne,
Himself the kingliest king.

As the Blue Ridge, in snowy drifts,
The hot springs hides, so burned
His hidden wrath,—he spurned their gifts,
Their pipes of peace he spurned.

These things, within her forest bower,
Did Pocahontas hear,
And day by day, and hour by hour,
They charmed her listening ear.

They brought, she knew not how nor whence,
Bright hopes, foretokens bright;
They brought a new and blessed sense
Of fuller life and light.

One might beneath the evening star,
When all was hushed without,
As thus she dreamed, she heard afar
The warrior's homeward shout.

From river bank, past field and plain,
The glad news spread like flame,
A captive in her father's train,
The pale-faced chieftain came.

Round blazing fires wild welcomes rang,
Glad songs the victors greet;
Silent, with fluttering heart, she sprang
The captive foe to meet.

One stealthy look, with tearful eye,
One glance with eager face,
So swift, so keen, it cut the tie
That bound her to her race.

For in that captive, bleeding, bound,
Sport of the savage crew,
With grateful, glowing heart she found
The dream within her true.

The better life she craved seemed now
In all his life astir,
And from his high, unpainted brow
It spoke and greeted her.

Those fancied joys, those hopes unnamed,
Seemed from his lips to call,
And all her love and reverence claimed,
Childlike, she gave them all.

Thenceforth that love she never spoke,
That reverence none could share,
Were his, as round some mighty oak
Circles the Summer air.

Her father's stern, unbending law
Too well her eye could read,
And in his fatal frown, she saw
The captive's death decreed.

Child of her sire, she felt no fear,
Nor from her purpose shrank,
From the deep fountain, still and clear,
Of her own spirit drank.

His life his rescue, all her care,
Though faint her hope and dim,
Untaught to pray, each thought a prayer,
And every thought for him.

And when, beneath the summer sky,
In the broad noonday light,
They brought the victim forth to die,
She did not shun the sight.

That gentle foot which never yet
Had crushed the tiniest worm,
Beyond the foremost rank was set,
A footfall light and firm.

He stood alone to meet his fate.
And, like the tide's full flood.
Around him swelled the waves of hate,
The Indian's thirst for blood.

His quick glance swept each scowling rank,
And caught its demon glare;
He bowed his head, his brave heart sank,
He saw no pity there.

A moment's silence, like the pause
That hushes human lips,
When, in mid heaven, the sun withdraws,
In total, dark eclipse;

Through that dead hush, that demon glare,
The fatal signal fell—
The war-club circles in the air,
Bursts forth the savage yell.

Poised like the breaking billow's crest,
She sees, she hears, she springs,
Her head is on the victim's breast,
Around his neck she clings.

No cry, no word, there needed none,
Her simple action spoke,
A voice to break a heart of stone,
Those hearts of stone it broke.

Harmless the lifted war-club fell,
In the green thicket cast,
In silence died the savage yell,
The storm of hate was past.

From the pure light of love like this,
Their hellish purpose fled,
Full orbed, across the dark abyss,
Its rising beam was shed.

Through all that forest shade it streamed,
And on each dusky face,
Spark of that love which once redeemed
And ransomed all our race.

By him, whose life she saved, she stands,
The conquered chief forgives,
With gentlest touch she joins their hands,
Her sole, sweet thought, “He lives!”

And still we see, above the gloom
Of that retreating storm,
Unveiled in love's perennial bloom,
This fair, transfigured form;

Like Mercy in the Pilgrim's dreams,
Crowned in a vision fair,
A dream within a dream, she seems
An angel's crown to wear.

Her after-life our memory keeps,
The household names she wore.
And where the wife and mother sleeps
On England's wave-washed shore.

Yet all our fancies turn to-day
On this sweet scene to dwell,
Where on her calm, secluded way
Such sudden glory fell.

And still she lives, the Indian maid,
Beneath Virginia's skies,
Who on her native altars laid
Love's crowning sacrifice.

For her sweet sake, a passing sigh
To her wild race we give,—
A hopeless shadow on its brow,
Homeless and fugitive.

Wisely the olive-branch we reach
To these fierce, faithless men,
Through those who keep the friendly speech
And Quaker faith of Penn.

Their path, through wild sierras, seeks
The goal where war shall cease,
How fair, on those far rocky peaks,
Their feet who publish peace!

Speed to this goal their mission mild.
Then Love's strong arm shall bar
The wrongs which shroud, with tempests wild,
The Red Man's setting star.

So shall our kindlier rule efface
The sense of ancient woes.
So pay the debt which all our race
To P OCAHONTAS owes!