That, like a Seraph's, in their pity, glow,
And surely Angels, looking from the skies
Claimed this poor savage girl a sister in disguise.
Those eyes, those tears prevent the falling stroke,
For Powhatan could not withstand her tears,
His favorite child, who, charmed, beneath the oak,
His savage spirit from her dawning years,
The wondering white man now he kindly rears,
And bids his menials haste the Indian's fare
For him whom now his daughter's love endears,