Sweet maid! she little dreamed how near The hour when she—a captive mourning— A Briton’s voice her grief would cheer, The White man’s debt returning; When Rolfe with tenderest care essayed The maiden’s flowing tears to dry, Until captivity he made More sweet than liberty! Amidst her grief, amidst her fear, Love’s melting tones first reached her ear, And oh! has life one dark distress That sweet voice cannot soothe or bless! It was as though the raging blast Had o’er some silent harp-strings past, And waked so soft, so wild a strain (As joy still owes its zest to pain), The spirit of the storm drew near, Closed his dark wings, and paused to hear! And with Rolfe’s heart she learned to share His hopes, on heavenward pinion soaring, And with him knelt in humble prayer, The Christian’s God adoring. The sacred tie has made them one, That tie which death alone can part, Love’s circlet on her hand hath shone, Love’s torch within her heart; And she hath quitted that wild shore Her tearful eyes shall view no more, And, wafted by the western wind, Left all that once she loved behind. Honours in Albion’s isle attend The Indian bride, the captive’s friend; From royal lips[3] her praises sound, Her generous deed with fame is crowned. But precious to her soul, above All fame, her husband’s smile of love, Or Smith’s proud glance, when she would claim Once more a daughter’s cherished name. But oh! how close the sacred ties That to our native country bind us, In foreign scenes the heart still sighs For dearer left behind us! She longed to see the waving woods, Her dark-haired sire, her Indian shore, Her spirit yearned to cross the floods And view her native soil once more. But ere the vessel left the strand, Sickness, with damp and heavy hand Stayed the fair wanderer, like a spell Unseen, but irresistible, For death in his pale bark had come To waft her to a brighter home. Brief was the passage, but how vast The space in those short seconds past! One moment Rolfe in wild distress Hung o’er her fading loveliness, Met her long dying gaze of love, Saw her pale lips in blessing move, The next—and her immortal soul Had crossed the floods, and reached the goal, And he was left to mourn its flight, Till death, that severed them, should reunite! II. BLANCHE. Life’s deep afflictions not alone demand Devout submission to th’ Almighty’s will, The flower nursed by dew, by breezes fanned, Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill, While all around it smiles, it fadeth still; Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed— Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill, And forms within itself a cheerless void ’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed.