These, for the love they bore her guileless youth, Paid the high fealty of the warm heart's truth; And with its homage satisfied, gone o'er Each vision bright that graced their natal shore. Those, with forebodings dread and brimful eyes, Bade holy angels guard the destinies Of one on whom had fallen the chrism of light With unction pure; the youthful neophyte Of that fair clime where millions yet unborn Shall raise the choral hymn from eve till morn. MRS. M. M. WEBSTER. In 1616 Pocahontas was taken to England, where she was received with marked attention by the Queen and court. She renewed her acquaintance with Captain John Smith, who was busy weaving fairy tales about her, had her portrait painted and led a fashionable life generally. It did not agree with her, she developed consumption, and died at Gravesend, March 27, 1617. THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN [June, 1616] In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green, Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen, For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen. There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere, Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair. As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command, Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "_Welcome, welcome, to my land!_" But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand. "What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee? I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea; On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished _but for thee_. "Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget! I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet; I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet. "Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man, Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan." With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there, While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare; But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair. All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf, And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden grief, Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief. At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell, And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.