MOSES Y. SCOTT
POCAHONTAS.
Rude was the storm, and her fallen hair
Stream'd in the gale from her bosom bare;
As alone, through the forest's blacken'd shade,
On errand of fear came the Indian maid.
Wild was her look; but her eye was bright
With the melting beam of Mercy's light—
Her speech was hurried; but kindness hung
On the accents bland of her warning tongue.
“White men, beware of Havoc's sweep!
He is waked in the forest, from sullen sleep—
He would drink your blood, in a guardless hour,
And your wives and slumbering babes devour.
“Beware!—for, the tempest, chain'd so long,
Shall burst tonight, in its fury strong—
The trees must root them against its sway,
And their branches cling, or be scatter'd away!
“The fire shall rage; for, the breeze is blowing—
The smoke rolls hither—the flames are glowing;
They climb the hills; to the vales they spread—
The night is black; but the forest is red.
“White men, beware!—And when at last,
Your fears are dead, and your dangers past,
Shall the voice of the warner be e'er betray'd—
Shall white men forget the Indian maid?”
