William McCarty, comp. The American National Song Book. 1842.
PocahontasMoses Y. Scott
R
Stream’d in the gale from her bosom bare,
As, alone, through the forest’s blacken’d shade,
On errand of fear came the Indian maid.
With the melting beam of Mercy’s light—
Her speech was hurried; but kindness hung
On the accents bland of her warning tongue.
He is waked in the forest from sullen sleep—
He would drink your blood in a guardless hour,
And your wives and slumbering babes devour.
Shall burst to-night, in its fury strong:
The trees must root them against its sway,
And the branches cling, or be scatter’d away!
The smoke rolls hither—the flames are glowing;
They climb the hills; to the vales they spread—
The night is black; but the forest is red.
Your fears are dead, and your dangers past,
Shall the voice of the warner be e’er betray’d?
Shall white men forget the Indian maid?”