The iron cares that load and press men down A father can, like school-boy tasks, lay by, When gazing in his Daughter's loving eye, Her soft arm like a spell around him thrown: The passions that, like Upas' leaves, have grown Most deadly in dark places, which defy Earth, heaven and human will, even these were shown All powerless to resist the pleading cry Which pierced a savage but a father's ear, And shook a soul where pity's pulse seemed dead; When Pocahontas, heeding not the fear That daunted boldest warriors, laid her head Beside the doomed! Now with our country's fame, Sweet forest* Daughter, we have blent thy name.