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,