  On a bright sunny morning in May the dewdrops were still sleeping in the cups of the flowers when Pocahontas arrived at Jamestown. A subdued excitement sparkled in her eyes and her parted lips could scarce keep back the eager speech. Hastily seeking out Captain Smith, she said, “Last night a vision came to Pocahontas out of the spirit-land. She comes to her father to know its meaning.” Leading her to a grassy knoll beside the lapping waters, and drawing her down beside him, he replied, “Speak on, my child.” “Listen and Pocahontas will tell you. “From the north came the maiden of darkness Floating on shadowy pinions, To brood over the sleeping hamlet. Now and then the bird of ill omen Sent its melancholy notes through the forests, Like the plaintive wail of the dying. On her embroidered pillow of leather, Made soft with the breast of the heron, Lay Pocahontas, daughter of Powhatan. Softly the spirit of slumber Lowered the curtains of vision, And carried her forth to the forest. Down where the water willow Washes her silver laces A brawling brook was resting In a hollow lined with lilies. The blue-gemmed dragon-fly Rippled its placid surface With touches light as a zephyr. Kneeling over its brink to gather The rounded pink and white pebbles, Lining its soft sandy bottom, She saw her laughing reflection Bending its head in sweet greeting. A chill of fear swept over her Like an icy blast from the north. Gradually her picture was changing Into some one she knew and she knew not. The blue-black veil of her hair Faded away like a vision in dreams. In its place long waves of sunshine Swept its billows o’er her shoulders. The copper-tinted skin of her tribe Gave place to the hue of the lily, And eyes, gray like the coat of the pigeon, Pleaded tenderly for love and compassion. ‘Mother,’ sprung to the lips of Pocahontas Like an arrow shot from the bow; And ‘Daughter,’ answered the vision, In accents as soft as music. As the picture slowly faded And Pocahontas raised her head, A wide plain stretched before her Where the forest once had stood. And the pale-faces of your people Were as many as the sands of the sea. Far away where the wintry sun Sinks into its bed to rest, There the diminished tribes of my people Wandered alone and forsaken.” “Truly a strange dream, my child,” Smith slowly replied. “The Great Spirit |
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