DOVER.
��THROUGH the greater part of our journey from London to Dover, we were instructed how copiously the English skies know how to pour down rain. Still, during intervals of the storm, and sometimes in spite of it, we explored various scenes and edifices.
Gravesend, some twenty miles from the metropolis, could not be passed without a tender reference in our American hearts, to the daughter of Powhatan, the friend of Virginia s ancestors, the cherished guest at Albion s court, who here found a tomb, in 1617, at the age of twenty-two, when about to reembark with her husband and son, for her native clime.
Those council-fires are quench d, that erst so red,
Mid western groves their midnight volume twined ; The red-brow d king and stately chief are dead,
Nor remnant, nor memorial left behind. But thou, meek forest-princess, true of heart. When o er our fathers waved destruction s dart,
Shalt in their children s loving hearts be shrined. Pure, lonely star, o er dark oblivion s wave, It is not meet thy name should moulder in the grave.
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