I pause not now to speak of Raleigh's dreams, Though they might give a loftier bard fit themes: I pause not now to tell of Ocracock, Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock; Nor of my native river which glides down Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town; But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay, Resume my story in the month of May, Where England's cross--St. George's ensign--flowed Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed; Where English breasts throbbed fast as English eyes Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise,-- Looked gladly out upon the varied scene Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green; Flinging great shadows, beautiful and vast As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast. Turn where they would, in what direction rove, They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove, On which they coasted through those forests dim, Wherein they heard the never-ceasing hymn That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines,-- Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines. For though no priest their solitudes had trod, The trees were vocal in their praise of God. And then, when, capes and jutting headlands past, The sails were furled against each idle mast, They saw the sunset in its pomp descend, And sky and water gloriously contend For gorgeousness of colors, red and gold, And tints of amethyst together rolled, Making a scene of splendor and of rest As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West. And when the light grew faint on wave and strand, New beauties woke in this enchanted land, For through heaven's lattice-work of crimson bars Like angels looked the bright eternal stars, And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown, A golden sickle, reaping darkness down, The new moon shone above the lofty trees, Which made low music in the evening breeze,-- The breeze which floating blandly from the shore The perfumed breath of flowering jasmine bore; For smiling Spring had kissed its clustering vines, And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines. JAMES BARRON HOPE. Captain Smith proved himself an energetic and effective leader, and led numerous expeditions into the country in search of food. On one of these, in December, 1607, he was taken prisoner and was conducted to the camp of Powhatan, over-king of the tribes from the Atlantic coast to the "falls of the river." According to the story he sent to England a few months later, he was well treated, and was sent back to Jamestown with an escort. Eight years afterwards, when writing an account of Powhatan's younger daughter, Pocahontas, who was then in England, for the entertainment of Queen Anne, he embellished this plain and probably truthful tale with the romantic incidents so long received as history. POCAHONTAS [January 5, 1608]