of the horizon; but, from the brightness of his departing beams, we can easily think what he was in the blaze of his fame. "If we view him as a statesman, a character which has been thought to demand a greater comprehension and variety of talents, where shall we find one who merited in a higher degree the palm of distinction and eminence? 'Tis true the theatre of his administration was neither wide nor conspicuous. He is not set off by the splendid machinery of palaces and courtiers, glittering with gold and precious stones; or the costly equipage of dress. He had no troops in rich uniform; he had no treasury; he maintained no ambassadors at foreign courts. Powhatan must be viewed as he stands in relation to the several Indian nations of Virginia. To judge him by European ideas of greatness would be the climax of injustice and absurdity." PROEM. THERE's a warrior race of a hardy form, Who are fearless in peril, and reckless of storm; Who are seen on the mountains when wintry winds blow, And, in midsummer's blaze, in the valleys below Their home is the forest, the earth is their bed, And the theme of their boast is the blood they have shed; With a spirit unbroken by famine or toil, They traverse the rivers and woods for their spoil; Yet the gentle affections have found an abode In these wild and dark bosoms, wherever they dwell; And nature has all the soft passions bestow'd Of parent and child feel the tenderest ties, And the pure light of love glances warm from their eyes. But the warrior race is fading away; The day of their prowess and glory is past; They are scathed like a grove where the lightnings play, They are scatter'd like leaves by the tempest blast. They must perish from earth with the deeds they have done; Already the pall of oblivion descends, Enshrouding the tribes from our view, one by one, A vision is passing before me now— The deeds of their chieftains come full on my sight, And maidens of mildness and beauty bow, As they faintly appear in the dim distant light. Like a cloud on the wind, it recedes from the viewAnd is there no power to rekindle its beams? No pencil to picture its form and its hue? O, spirit of poesy, parent of song, Thou alone canst the light of that vision prolong; Then let it descend to a distant age, Embodied forth on thy deathless page. |