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.

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,