Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN [JUNE, 1616], by MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN [JUNE, 1616], by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: In a stately hall at brentford
Last Line: "take my hand, and let us follow the great captain to his queen."
Subject(s): Native Americans; Pocahontas (1595-1617); Smith, John (1580-1631); Indians Of America; American Indians; Indians Of South America


IN a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green,
Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen,
For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen.

There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air
All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere,
Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair.

As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command,
Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "Welcome, welcome, to my land!"
But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand.

"What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee?
I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea;
On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished but for thee.

"Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget!
I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet;
I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet.

"Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man,
Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran
To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan."

With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there,
While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare;
But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair.

All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf,
And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by
some sudden grief,
Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp,
searching, brief.

At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell,
And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell
Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.

But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head,
Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said:
"White man's tongue is false. It told me -- told me --
that my brave was dead.

"And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves
(Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice
within her grieves?),
Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves.

"Call me 'child' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean;
Never shadow, Nenemoosa, our twain hearts shall come between;
Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen."





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