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