TO POCAHONTAS.

HE who thy lovely face beholds,
Where beauty every charm unfolds,
Is surely blest; but more so he,
Who hears thy voice of harmony!
But more than mortal is the bliss
Of him who ravishes a kiss,

In playful dalliance, from those lips,
Where glowing Love his empire keeps.
But quite a God is, sure the swain,
Who feels thee, blushing, kiss again;
And from that mouth the gift receives
Which all his soul of sense bereaves!

In the preceding little poem there will be found some lines unskilfully wrought; yet, so much more can we feel than imagine, and so much will truth predominate over fiction, that it will be, perhaps, recurred to without satiety, when the bundles of epic rhymes which now usurp the shelves of the bookseller, shall be transferred to their lawful claimants, the pastry-cook, and trunkmaker.

The third and last poem of Mr. Rolfe, was produced on the banks of the river Powhatan. In this his epigram and spriteliness have left him. He appears to be deeply wounded; not, indeed, by the arrow of an Indian, but the bow of a child. He seems to have received a death-wound; the very pin of his heart is cleft with the but-shaft of Cupid.

SONNET TO POCAHONTAS

WHERE from the shore, I oft have view'd the sail,
Mount on the flood, and darken in the gale,

Now wan with care, beneath the oak reclin'd,
Thy form, O! Pocahontas, fills my mind.

Here from my comrades, where the moon's soft beam,
Trembles in antic shadows on the stream;

Here the sad muse, in sympathy of woe,
Assists my grief in solitude to flow.

Here where the mocking-bird, the woods among,
Warbles with rolling note her plaintive song,
And the sad Mucakawis' ill-omen'd strain,
Rings from the woods, and echoes to the plain,
Here as I pensive wander through the glade,
I sigh and call upon my Indian Maid.*

It was during one of these nights, when Mr. Rolfe was sitting woe-begone under an oak, sighing and groaning, and coupling love. with dove, that a foot wandering among the trees disturbed his profound thoughts. It was too light to belong to a man, and his prophetic soul told him it was the step of Pocahontas. He stole to the spot. It was SHE! It was Pocahontas strewing flowers over the imaginary grave of Captain Smith. Overcome with terror and surprize, to be thus discovered by a stranger, the powers of life were suspended, and she sunk into the arms of Rolfe. For what rapturous moments is a lover often in

[* The author uses this sonnet again in his historical novel, The First Settlers of Virginia, p. 172. He does not there directly ascribe the lines to Rolfe.]

debted to accident! The impassioned youth clasped the Indian Maid to his beating heart, and drank from her lips the poison of delight. The breast of a woman is, perhaps, never more susceptible of a new passion than when it is agitated by the remains of a former one. When Pocahontas recovered from her confusion, a blush burnt on her cheek to find herself in the arms of a man; but when Rolfe threw himself before her on his knees, and clasping his hands to the moon, discovered the emotions that had so long filled his breast, the afflicted girl suffered him to wipe the tear from her eye that overflowed with sorrow, and no longer repulsed the ardour of his The day was now breaking on the summits of the mountains in the East; the song of the mocking-bird* was become faint,

caresses.

*Of the feathered choir on the Western Continent, none is to be compared to the mocking-bird. When weary of mocking other birds, it luxuriates in an original strain; a strain characterised sometimes by merriment, and sometimes by tenderness. It delights, however, in cheerful tunes; and such is the sprightliness of the mocking-bird, that it will jump and dance to its own cadence.

No writer before me has ever introduced this songster warbling either by night or by day. Brown in his thousand and one novels, lays all the scenes in his native country, and yet, never once makes mention of this bird! Oh! what a sullenness against nature! And the Travellers from England seem more delighted with the bellowing of the bull-frog, on whose intonations they lavish all their eloquence.

In Prince William County, Virginia, I lucubrated late; and whenever the moon was visible, my feelings were always raised by the song of the mocking-bird. It generally perched

and the cry of the Muckawiss was heard only at long intervals. Pocahontas urged to go; but Rolfe still breathed in her ear the music of his vows, as he held her in his arms, or still rioted in the draught of intoxication from her lips. The sun had appeared above the mountains when Pocahontas returned through the woods.

In the early part of the year 1612, two more ships arrived from England with men and provisions. They found the colony much distressed for want of grain; they had no leader to stimulate them to industry by his example, and, relapsing into indolence, had neglected the cultivation of the earth. The provision brought them by the ships was not sufficient for them to subsist on long; and Powhatan, who was still at variance with the colony refused them a supply.*

within a hundred yards of my log-hut. Old Aunt Patty, the negro cook, was sitting on the threshhold of the next door, smoking the stump of an old pipe. "Please God Almighty," exclaimed the old woman, "how sweet that mocking-bird "sing! He never tire!"

* The distress of the Colonists appears ludicrous, when we search for the cause of the effect. It was a spirit of forming Utopian schemes of government, which heaped on them such calamities. It was agreed that no man should have any personal property in land or grain, but that every one should labour for, and be maintained by the public stock. The natural consequence was, that every man consumed as much of the public stock as he could come at, and contributed nothing to it by his labour but what he could not avoid. Hinc illa lachryma!

In this critical situation of affairs, Captain Argall, who commanded one of the ships, devised an expedient to bring Powhatan to a compliance with their demands. His prolific brain was big with a stratagem, which, however unjustifiable, met with the concurrence of the Colonists. He knew the affection which Powhatan bore for his daughter Pocahontas, and was determined to seize her.

Argall, having unloaded his vessel at the fort, sailed up the Potomac, under pretence of trading with the Indians who inhabited its banks. But he had been informed that Pocahontas was on a visit to Japazaws, King of Potomac, and his real motive was to gain over the savage by presents, and make him the instrument of putting Pocahontas into his power.

Japazaws had his price. For the promised reward of a copper-kettle, of which this savage had become enamoured, he prevailed on Pocahontas to accompany him and his Queen in a visit on board the ship; when Argall detained the betrayed girl, and conveyed her, with some corn he had purchased, in triumph to the fort.

Rolfe was not sorry for the stratagem that brought Pocahontas to the fort. He had exposed himself to the most imminent danger by a mid-night expedition to the neighborhood of Werowocomoco, where his Indian