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