on a bright sunny morning in may the dewdrops were still sleeping in the cups of the flowers when pocahontas arrived at jamestown. a subdued excitement sparkled in her eyes and her parted lips could scarce keep back the eager speech. hastily seeking out captain smith, she said, “last night a vision came to pocahontas out of the spirit-land. she comes to her father to know its meaning.”
leading her to a grassy knoll beside the lapping waters, and drawing her down beside him, he replied, “speak on, my child.”
“listen and pocahontas will tell you.
“from the north came the maiden of darkness
floating on shadowy pinions,
to brood over the sleeping hamlet.
now and then the bird of ill omen
sent its melancholy notes through the forests,
like the plaintive wail of the dying.
on her embroidered pillow of leather,
made soft with the breast of the heron,
lay pocahontas, daughter of powhatan.
softly the spirit of slumber
lowered the curtains of vision,
and carried her forth to the forest.
down where the water willow
washes her silver laces
94
a brawling brook was resting
in a hollow lined with lilies.
the blue-gemmed dragon-fly
rippled its placid surface
with touches light as a zephyr.
kneeling over its brink to gather
the rounded pink and white pebbles,
lining its soft sandy bottom,
she saw her laughing reflection
bending its head in sweet greeting.
a chill of fear swept over her
like an icy blast from the north.
gradually her picture was changing
into some one she knew and she knew not.
the blue-black veil of her hair
faded away like a vision in dreams.
in its place long waves of sunshine
swept its billows o’er her shoulders.
the copper-tinted skin of her tribe
gave place to the hue of the lily,
and eyes, gray like the coat of the pigeon,
pleaded tenderly for love and compassion.
‘mother,’ sprung to the lips of pocahontas
like an arrow shot from the bow;
and ‘daughter,’ answered the vision,
in accents as soft as music.
as the picture slowly faded
and pocahontas raised her head,
a wide plain stretched before her
where the forest once had stood.
and the pale-faces of your people
were as many as the sands of the sea.
far away where the wintry sun
sinks into its bed to rest,
there the diminished tribes of my people
wandered alone and forsaken.”
“truly a strange dream, my child,” smith slowly replied. “the great spirit95 sends me no answer. we must look to the coming years for its meaning. of one thing i am certain, the god of the white man has you in his keeping. no harm shall come to pocahontas, his ministering angel.”
