She will but waste herself in barren tears,
Nor save one victim from the gulph of ruin.
Wake, lady, from this lethargy of sorrow,
Nor thus in silent grief consume that strength,
Which hath sustained so much of toil and danger.
Oh! What are toil and danger to the loss
Of him who gave me being?-him, whose care
Supply'd a mother's place from early youth,
E'en to this fatal period of misfortune,
My friend and guide: his counsels taught me prudence,
When fortune smil'd; and in the hour of danger
His cheering eye revived my sinking spirits-
But now am I bereft of all support;
Left, like some shoot, whose parent tree the winds
Have in their fury from its roots up-torn,
To droop and die-with thee, my father, fled
Thy daughter's every hope.-
Thou hast another father, who to thee,
To him, thou mourn'st, and all of us, his children,
Extends his care paternal; to whose sight
We are as present in this wilderness,
As is the mightiest monarch of the earth,
In all the pomp and splendour of his greatness.
Oh, pardon, heaven, if in the first surprise
Of this severe misfortune, while my brain
Was giddy with the shock, my wand'ring tongue
Hath pour'd the language of distraction forth,
And rav'd I know not what, of impious folly.
Oh! teach me resignation to thy will;
Support my yielding strength, which, but for thee, Must sink beneath this load of woe.
The burden is no light one; yet, perhaps,
Imagination hath outrun the truth;
Thy father is not kill'd,—may soon escape,—
Nay more, 'tis not impossible, these Indians,
All savage as they are, may stand our friends;
How oft do things of most forbidding aspect,
On more acquaintance, prove most profitable!--
Oft doth the gloomy cloud, whose course the hind
In silence ey'd, and trembled for his grain,
Dissolve in kindly moisture o'er his head,
Turning his fears to joy-this very morn,
When wand'ring from the beach ye first beheld
The rugged front of this mishapen rock,
Ye could not think to find within its bosom
The warmth and comfort of my friendly cave;
Then let us hope, the natives of these woods,
Whose first encounter hath so troubled us,
May do us kindness, give us some assistance,
Or useful information,-guide us hence,-
Perchance enable us to reach the dwellings
Of men more civiliz'd.
That were indeed a blessing-but to think on't
Gives me new life-I have sometimes been told,
That savage nations are most hospitable;
Nor cruel, but to those they take in war.
-And if my father could prevail on them
To give us aid, perhaps we are not far
From English settlements.
UMFREVILLE.
Oh! wond'rous spring
Of youth's elastic mind, which, at one bound,
Leaps from the deepest gulph of sad despair
E'en to the highest pinnacle of hope.
O'er all the pleasing prospects, I have drawn,
Still hangs the cloud of dark uncertainty:
Nor should we so to fancy give the reins,
As to permit her coinage in our thoughts
To dwell uncheck'd, although it bear the form
Of things most probable: but with our wishes
Mix many a doubt; alive to expectation,
Yet chast'ning hope with fear-This Indian youth
May turn to better knowledge our conjectures-
Enter Potowmac and Ferdinand conversing.
Our dwellings are far hence;-but on this coast
We range at times, in search of game and fish,
For winter-store;-full well are known to us
The people of your language and complexion,
The children of the king, whose empire lies
O'er the great waters, towards the rising sun-
With these our warriors and myself have mix'd
In frequent intercourse of peace and war.
Hath for some moons been buried in the earth.
Think you, your warriors then will give us here The hand of friendship, and conduct our steps To our own settlements?
I know not that-the chief, who hath most weight Among our warlike youth, dislikes your nation,
With much reluctance smok'd the pipe of
And, could he find occasion, would resume
The dress of battle-Dark he is, and sullen,
Implacable in hate, and violent,
(Being mov'd to anger) as the cataract,
Whose roar the hunter, list'ning for his prey,
Hears in the woods far off-And more there are,
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