Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer.
A Poem
By
Virginia Carter Castleman
To Anita.
Virginia! Mother State—thy name beloved
By every patriot for its music sweet—
I lay this lowly tribute at thy feet,
One leaf, perchance, upon thy wreath of fame.
(A descriptive narrative poem in eight parts.)
1. The Little Princess. 2. The Wizard. 3. Smith and Newport. 4. Coronation of Powhatan. 5. Guardian Angel. 6. The Parting. 7. Pocahontas and John Rolfe. 8. London Town.
Many dark-eyed children played among the rushes
By the waters of the inland, plain-like marshes,
Made them water babies of the tall brown cattails,
Cradled in the baskets of the plaited willows.
Of them all was none more gleeful, none more artless
Than the little Matoax,[FN#1] dearest of the daughters
Of the mighty Werowance,[FN#2] Powhatan the warrior
Ruler of the tribes, from whom was named the river
And the wigwam village and the dark-skinned natives.
None in all the land, from mountain unto sea,
None more brave, more stern, and none more feared than he.
Dear to him the chase, the war, the trembling captives,
And the rustling pines whose fragrance filled the air—
Ah! 'Twas in the Springtime, and the world was fair.
[FN#1] Matoax, tribal name of Pocahontas.
[FN#2] Werowance, ruler or chief.
Evening came; the tired earth had dropped asleep,
Born the Maytide night in silence calm and deep,
Bright in azure vault of heaven the twinkling stars
Vigils kept, as lover over his beloved.
Only one sound the twilight stillness broke upon,
Crooning of Indian mother to her babe.
Fainter grew the mother-song, and died away;
Then, as if inspired by oft-repeated strain,
Suddenly a mocking-bird took up refrain—
New World nightingale whose joyous warbling thrills
Hearts responsive to the clear, melodious trills.
Did the music fall upon unheeding ears
Of the Indian hunters as they slumbering lay?
Rather in their dreams those forest natives heard
Echoes of the warrior's triumphant song
In that hunting-ground where sings the deathless bird.
(Prelude.)
Softly flowed the current of an ancient river
Where it circled wide three beauteous emerald isles,
Ceaseless lapped the waves upon the pebbled shore,
Fringed with willows silvery, drooping evermore.
High upon the beach an Indian village stood,
Twelve low wigwams built upon the seasoned wood.
Dark-eyed squaws the noonday meal prepared
For the lordly hunters who on bounty fared.
Winter's chase was over, each hunter smoked in peace
(Joy in heart that Spring at length had brought release).
In the open doorway, whence his proud glance strayed
From th