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,