POWHATAN; A METRICAL ROMANCE, IN SEVEN CANTOS. BY SEBA SMITH. “He cometh to you with a tale, that holdeth children from play and old men from the chimney-corner.”--_Sir Philip Sidney._ NEW-YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, CLIFF-STREET. 1841. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New-York. Stereotyped by RICHARD C. VALENTINE, 45 Gold-street. TO THE YOUNG PEOPLE OF THE UNITED STATES, IN THE HOPE THAT HE MAY DO SOME GOOD IN HIS DAY AND GENERATION, BY ADDING SOMETHING TO THE SOURCES OF RATIONAL ENJOYMENT AND MENTAL CULTURE, THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. “Poetry is a mere drug,” say the publishers; “bring us no more poetry, it won’t sell.” “Poetry is a terrible bore,” say a majority of the dear public; “it is too high-flown; we can’t understand it.” To all this, we are tempted to reply in the language of doctor Abernethy to one of his patients. The good old lady, when the doctor entered the room, raised her arm to her head, and drawing her face into a very painful expression, exclaimed, “Oh, oh! O dear, Doctor, it almost kills me to lift my arm up so; what shall I do?” “Well, madam,” said the doctor, gravely, “then you must be a very great fool to lift your arm up so.” Leaving the reader to make the application, we hasten to deny the premises assumed by the publishers and a portion of the public. What they say, is not true of _poetry_; it is in direct contradiction to the experience of the world in all ages and all nations, for thousands of years. But it may be true, and _is_ true, of endless masses of words that are poured forth from the press under the _name_ of poetry. But we do not believe, that genuine poetry, that which is worthy of the name, is either “a drug,” or “too high-flown” to be enjoyed and understood by the mass of the reading public. “The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.”