The Princess died at Gravesend, on the eve of her departure for
Virginia. The office of her panegyrist is confined to the merest
details. The simplest narrative of her life, is the profoundest eulogy
to her memory. Born in an age too rude to afford her the precepts and
the instructions of virtue, while the condition of her sex seemingly
precluded her from opportunities for the display of shining merit, she
has yet left examples so signal, that after-times will best evince
their progress to refinement, by their successful emulation of her
mercy, redeeming and saving from captivity and death--and of her
capacious charity, feeding a famished people from her hand--and that
people a stranger and an enemy. The eye and the bosom of beauty
suffused, and throbbing under the compassionate influence of pity--the
prostrate attitude--the dishevelled hair--and the impassioned gaze of
Pocahontas suing for the life of Smith at the feet of Powhatan--the
timid and delicate maiden, heedless of the wonted terrors of her sex,
rushing to save, through darkness and danger--Pocahontas at
Ratcliffe's massacre, sheltering in her bosom the head of the boy
Spillman, and warding with her naked hands the glancing tomahawks;
these are passages of her eventful life, beyond the efforts of the
pencil or the pen; and, without the aid of any coloring in the
representation, melt the coldest hearts into acknowledgments of their
moral influence and beauty.