“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries, Before her parent interceding, Her claspèd hands, and eloquent eyes, More than her accents pleading; “Was he not brave in war, and kind And true in peace? did he e’er break The solemn wampum league, or bind The captive to the stake? For him a wife afar may sigh, A lonely mother mourning die, For who shall now with sounding bow Bring down for them the elk or roe, Whose hatchet shall defend their home When hostile tribes with war-cries come! Oh! spare the white chief, that his voice His wife’s sad bosom may rejoice; Oh! spare him, that his hand may dry The teardrop in his mother’s eye!” But stern the Indian’s answer; vain Her pleading words, her warm endeavour, The murderers’ clubs are raised again To crush the brave for ever! Lo! from her knees the maiden springs, Rapid as lightning’s flash above, As guardian angels spread their wings O’er mortals that they love, Around the Doomed her arms are thrown, His form protected by her own, With him will she the worst await, And save his life, or share his fate! “Strike him!” she cries, “but ’neath the blow His blood and mine shall mingled flow; Strike him! but in the spirit-land With him shall Pocahontas stand, Nor live to say her tribe hath slain The chief for whom she prayed in vain!” There is a spell in woman’s eye When, injured Virtue’s cause defending, Her soul is roused to energy, Vigour with sweetness blending! Soft plumes that tremble in the air Have formed a breastplate strong to save, And woman’s heart will oft-times dare What might appal the brave! E’en the rude Indians feel the power Of courage equal to the hour, Catch virtues warm inspiring glow And more than mercy asked, bestow. Rise, Briton, rise, both safe and free, With life receive back liberty; Spring from the spot of sacrifice From which thou ne’er didst hope to rise; Or rather, once more prostrate fall To bless the God who saved from all! Not long the dark-eyed maiden hears His grateful words of deep devotion, They part—to meet in future years Beyond the heaving ocean. “Go, stranger, to thy distant home,” Thus flowed her simple, wild farewell, “When thy pale tribes to greet thee come, Then of the Red man’s mercy tell! And when the round sun leaves the sky To light the Indian forests high, Say thou hast left a daughter there, And bid him here thy greetings bear! And oh! if e’er a Red man be Thy captive, then remember me; If weary-footed Indian pray For shelter, turn not thou away, But to my race a father be, As thou hast found a child in me!”