POWHATAN;
A M E T R I C A L R O M A N C E,
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
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.”
Poetry like that, will always find readers and admirers among all classes, whether high or low, rich or poor, learned or unlearned. True poetry is the unsophisticated language of nature—so plain and simple, that he that runs may read. In proof of this, it is found, that among the writings of popular authors, those poems most marked for simple and natural language, other things being equal, are always the most popular. There must be taste and judgment in the selection of subjects, for many subjects are in their nature unsuited to the true spirit of poetry.
The author of Powhatan does not presume to claim for his production the merit of good and genuine poetry; nor does he pretend to assign it a place in the classes or forms into which poetry is divided. He has chosen to call it a metrical romance, as a title of less pretension than that of poem; and he is perfectly willing that others should call it by whatever name they please. Whatever may be its faults, they must rest solely upon the author. They cannot be chargeable to the subject, for that is full of interest, and dignity, and poetry. Nor can they be palliated by the plea of hasty composition; for he has had the work on his hands at intervals for several years, though to be sure something more than half of it has been written within the year past. Of one thing the author feels confident; but whether it may be regarded as adding to, or detracting from, the merit of the work, he knows not; he believes it would be difficult to find a poem that embodies more truly the spirit of history, or indeed that follows out more faithfully many of its details. Of the justness of this remark, some evidence may be found in the notes attached to the work.
Finally, with regard to its merits, the test by which the author desires to be tried, is the common taste of common readers. If they shall read it with pleasure, and if the impression made by its perusal shall induce them to recur to it again with renewed delight, he will care little for the rules by which critics may judge it, but will find satisfaction in the assurance that he has added something honorable to the literature of his country.
New York, January, 1841.
SKETCH OF THE CHARACTER OF POWHATAN.
As Powhatan may be regarded as the most prominent personage in the poem, the author has thought proper to give the following well-drawn sketch of his character a place at the commencement of the work, rather than among the notes at the end. It is extracted from Burk’s “History of Virginia,” and will serve to show that grave and sober history assigns to the Indian chieftain a rank no less elevated and dignified than is given him in the following poem.
“The greater part of his life was passed in what is generally termed glory and good fortune. In the cant of civilization, he will doubtless be branded with the epithets of tyrant and barbarian. But his title to greatness, although his opportunities were fewer, is to the full as fair as that of Tamerlane or Kowli Khan, and several others, whom history has immortalized as conquerors; while the proofs of his tyranny are by no means so clear and unequivocal.
“Born to a slender patrimony, in the midst of numerous tribes more subtle than the Arabs of the desert, and whose independence spurned even the shadow of restraint, he contrived, by his valor and address, to unite them in one firm and indissoluble union, under his power and authority; giving his name to the new empire which his wisdom had erected, and which continued to flourish under his auspices and direction.
“As a warrior, bold, skilful, and enterprising, he was confessedly without rival or competitor; inspiring with respect or terror even the formidable enemies who dared to make head against his encroachments. The powerful confederacy of the Manakins and Manahoacks, and the more distant inhabitants of the lakes, heard the name of Powhatan with uneasiness and alarm.
“At the coming of the English he had reached the advanced age of sixty years, and enjoyed in the bosom of his family the fruits of his long and glorious exertions. The spectacle of men who came from beyond the sea, in floating and winged houses, and who fought with thunder and lightnings, could not fail to strike him by its grandeur and novelty. The intent of the strangers appeared, at first view, to be friendly; and he received them with courtesy. But his sagacious mind quickly developed the motives, and foresaw the consequences, of their arrival. He looked forward with regret to a renewal of his labors; and, at the age of sixty, he resolved to fight over again the battles of his youth. He might have lived in peace. He was aware of the superiority of his new enemy in the machines and instruments of battle, as well as in their discipline and experience; but these cold calculations vanished before his sense of honor and independence. Age could not chill the ardor of his heroic bosom.
“In the private circle of his family, who appears to greater advantage than Powhatan?—what affection for his brothers! how delicate and considerate his regard for his children! what moderation and pity does he not manifest towards Captain Smith, when, subdued by the tears of Pocahontas, and touched, perhaps, with compassion for the bravery and misfortunes of his captive, he consented to spare his life!
“Powhatan comes before us without any of those mortifying and abasing circumstances which, in the eye of human respect, diminish the lustre of reputation. History records no violence offered to his person; no insulting language used in his presence. Opechancanough had been dragged by the hair, at the head of hundreds of Indians; but never had the majesty of Powhatan been violated by personal insult.
“In all disputes and conferences with the English, he never once forgets that he is a monarch; never permits others to forget it. ‘If your king,’ said he to Smith, ‘has sent me presents, I too am a king, and I am in my own land.’ No matter who the person is whom the partiality of the historian may think proper to distinguish as his hero; we never lose sight of the manly figure and venerable majesty of the Indian hero. He is always the principal figure in the group; and in his presence, even the gallant and adventurous Smith is obliged to play a second part; and all others are forgotten.
“Owing to that obscurity in which, unhappily, every thing relating to this people is involved, we know little of the dawn of Powhatan’s glory—little of his meridian. Those particular traits which would have enabled us accurately to estimate the character and capacity of his mind, have felt the fate of oral record and remembrance. The exploits of his youth and his manhood have perished, for the want of a poet or historian. We saw him only for a short time, on the edge 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;
With a soul that no terrors of nature appal,
They dance on the verge of the cataract’s fall;
They chase the huge crocodile home to the fen,
They rob the wild bear of the cubs in her den,
They weary the deer in her rapidest flight,
And they sleep with the wolf on the mountain’s height.
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
On her favorite children of mountain and dell.
Though they fall on a foe with a tiger’s fangs,
And joy and exult in his keenest pangs,
The least act of kindness they never forget,
And the sin of ingratitude ne’er stain’d them yet.
They weep o’er the graves of their valiant dead,
And piously reverence the aged head;
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,
And time o’er the straggling remnants bends,
And sweeps them away with a hurried pace,
Still sounding the knell of the warrior race.
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.
That vision is fading—now fainter it seems—
Like a cloud on the wind, it recedes from the view—
And 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.