Who dares the dangerous path, at hour so wild,
With fleet and fawn-like step?—Powhatan's fearless child!
XXVI.
Those secret vows that seal a nation's doom,
Bid the red flame burst forth, at midnight hour,
And make th' unconscious slumberer's bed his tomb,
Spare not the babe—the rose-leaf of a day,—
But shred the sapling, like the oak, away.
I heard the curse! My soul is sick with gloom:
Wake, chieftains, wake! avert the hour of dread!"
And, with that warning voice, the guardian-angel fled.
XXVII.
Was rounded to the symmetry of youth;
While, o'er her features stole, serenely mild,
The trembling sanctity of woman's truth,
Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace:
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve, which nerv'd the Roman soul.
XXVIII.
Her greenwood gambols mid the matted vines,
The curious glance of wild and searching ray,
Where innocence with ignorance combines,
Were changed for deeper thought's persuasive air,
Or that high port a princess well might wear:
So fades the doubtful star, when morning shines;
