Thewarm spring came, and the opening flowerOn the sloping hill was seen;And summer breathed on the waking woods,And dress’d them in their green;The wild-bird in the branches sung,The wild-deer fed below;Far up the river side appear’dThe hunter with his bow;And on the fresh and sunny field,Hard toiling through the day,The weary colonist was outBy the groves of Paspahey.Ship after ship came o’er the sea,Laden with fresh supplies,And men by hundreds came to joinThis new world’s enterprise;And up and down the noble JamesWere settlements begun,And many an opening in the woodsLook’d out upon the sun.The busy tradesman ope’d his storeOf goods and wares for sale,And blithely by the barnyard sangThe milkmaid with her pail;The stout mechanic in his shopWhistled the hours away,And sturdily his labor pliedThrough the long summer day.With boding and uneasy mindThe thoughtful Indian view’dThe fatal signs of English powerSpread o’er his solitude;And oft he brooded many a scheme,And much he long’d to seeA withering blight or death-blow givenTo this wide-spreading tree.
Thewarm spring came, and the opening flowerOn the sloping hill was seen;And summer breathed on the waking woods,And dress’d them in their green;The wild-bird in the branches sung,The wild-deer fed below;Far up the river side appear’dThe hunter with his bow;And on the fresh and sunny field,Hard toiling through the day,The weary colonist was outBy the groves of Paspahey.Ship after ship came o’er the sea,Laden with fresh supplies,And men by hundreds came to joinThis new world’s enterprise;And up and down the noble JamesWere settlements begun,And many an opening in the woodsLook’d out upon the sun.The busy tradesman ope’d his storeOf goods and wares for sale,And blithely by the barnyard sangThe milkmaid with her pail;The stout mechanic in his shopWhistled the hours away,And sturdily his labor pliedThrough the long summer day.With boding and uneasy mindThe thoughtful Indian view’dThe fatal signs of English powerSpread o’er his solitude;And oft he brooded many a scheme,And much he long’d to seeA withering blight or death-blow givenTo this wide-spreading tree.
Thewarm spring came, and the opening flowerOn the sloping hill was seen;And summer breathed on the waking woods,And dress’d them in their green;The wild-bird in the branches sung,The wild-deer fed below;Far up the river side appear’dThe hunter with his bow;And on the fresh and sunny field,Hard toiling through the day,The weary colonist was outBy the groves of Paspahey.Ship after ship came o’er the sea,Laden with fresh supplies,And men by hundreds came to joinThis new world’s enterprise;And up and down the noble JamesWere settlements begun,And many an opening in the woodsLook’d out upon the sun.The busy tradesman ope’d his storeOf goods and wares for sale,And blithely by the barnyard sangThe milkmaid with her pail;The stout mechanic in his shopWhistled the hours away,And sturdily his labor pliedThrough the long summer day.With boding and uneasy mindThe thoughtful Indian view’dThe fatal signs of English powerSpread o’er his solitude;And oft he brooded many a scheme,And much he long’d to seeA withering blight or death-blow givenTo this wide-spreading tree.
At evening sat King PowhatanBeside his daughter fair,To watch the far-off lightning’s flash,And breathe the cooling air:’ Twas by the door of his summer lodge;His guards stood round in sight,The moon between the flying cloudsSent down a paly light,When Opechancanough arrived,With an air of kingly pride,And greeting great King Powhatan,Sat thoughtful by his side.
At evening sat King PowhatanBeside his daughter fair,To watch the far-off lightning’s flash,And breathe the cooling air:’ Twas by the door of his summer lodge;His guards stood round in sight,The moon between the flying cloudsSent down a paly light,When Opechancanough arrived,With an air of kingly pride,And greeting great King Powhatan,Sat thoughtful by his side.
At evening sat King PowhatanBeside his daughter fair,To watch the far-off lightning’s flash,And breathe the cooling air:’ Twas by the door of his summer lodge;His guards stood round in sight,The moon between the flying cloudsSent down a paly light,When Opechancanough arrived,With an air of kingly pride,And greeting great King Powhatan,Sat thoughtful by his side.
‘What tidings, Opechancanough?’Said the monarch to his guest;‘Has the tree of these pale-faces spread‘So wide thou canst not rest?‘And hast thou come in sadness now‘To tell thy thoughts to me,‘And to pray the spirit of yonder fires‘To blast the pale-face tree?’
‘What tidings, Opechancanough?’Said the monarch to his guest;‘Has the tree of these pale-faces spread‘So wide thou canst not rest?‘And hast thou come in sadness now‘To tell thy thoughts to me,‘And to pray the spirit of yonder fires‘To blast the pale-face tree?’
‘What tidings, Opechancanough?’Said the monarch to his guest;‘Has the tree of these pale-faces spread‘So wide thou canst not rest?‘And hast thou come in sadness now‘To tell thy thoughts to me,‘And to pray the spirit of yonder fires‘To blast the pale-face tree?’
Then spoke Pamunky’s king, and said,With half triumphant mein,‘True, strongly grows the pale-face tree,‘Its boughs are fresh and green;‘But I have found a secret fire,‘That will at my bidding go,‘And, creeping through the pale-face tree,‘Lay its tall branches low.‘My priest a subtle poison keeps,‘From deadly weeds distill’d;‘A single drop, where the red-deer feeds,‘A red-deer oft has kill’d.‘Rich venison and wild fowls, imbued‘With this dark drug, have gone‘To feed the famish’d pale-face foe,‘A present to Sir John.‘And ere to-morrow’s noonday hour‘They’ll droop, and fade, and die,‘And strew the ground, like autumn leaves‘When the storm-god passes by.‘The breeze all day across the land‘Shall bear their dying groans,‘And the river-god shall many a year‘Behold their whitening bones.’
Then spoke Pamunky’s king, and said,With half triumphant mein,‘True, strongly grows the pale-face tree,‘Its boughs are fresh and green;‘But I have found a secret fire,‘That will at my bidding go,‘And, creeping through the pale-face tree,‘Lay its tall branches low.‘My priest a subtle poison keeps,‘From deadly weeds distill’d;‘A single drop, where the red-deer feeds,‘A red-deer oft has kill’d.‘Rich venison and wild fowls, imbued‘With this dark drug, have gone‘To feed the famish’d pale-face foe,‘A present to Sir John.‘And ere to-morrow’s noonday hour‘They’ll droop, and fade, and die,‘And strew the ground, like autumn leaves‘When the storm-god passes by.‘The breeze all day across the land‘Shall bear their dying groans,‘And the river-god shall many a year‘Behold their whitening bones.’
Then spoke Pamunky’s king, and said,With half triumphant mein,‘True, strongly grows the pale-face tree,‘Its boughs are fresh and green;‘But I have found a secret fire,‘That will at my bidding go,‘And, creeping through the pale-face tree,‘Lay its tall branches low.‘My priest a subtle poison keeps,‘From deadly weeds distill’d;‘A single drop, where the red-deer feeds,‘A red-deer oft has kill’d.‘Rich venison and wild fowls, imbued‘With this dark drug, have gone‘To feed the famish’d pale-face foe,‘A present to Sir John.‘And ere to-morrow’s noonday hour‘They’ll droop, and fade, and die,‘And strew the ground, like autumn leaves‘When the storm-god passes by.‘The breeze all day across the land‘Shall bear their dying groans,‘And the river-god shall many a year‘Behold their whitening bones.’
He paused and look’d at PowhatanFor some approving word;But a bitter sigh from MetokaWas the only sound he heard.‘If it is done, then be it so,’The monarch said, at last;‘Though rather would I see them fall‘By the spirit’s lightning blast;‘Or that our arms in open fight‘Might hurl the deadly blow,‘And show them Powhatan has power‘To conquer any foe.‘But if the deed is done, ’tis well—‘The agent or the hour‘We will not question, if it serve‘To crush their growing power.‘Come, let us to the lodge retire;‘Thou’lt rest with us to-night:‘The clouds rise dark; the lightning fires‘Flash with a fiercer light.’Now sitting in the lodge, they talkOf their mighty pale-face foe:Pamunky broods with secret joyUpon the impending blow;But Powhatan walks up and downWith sadness in his eye;For though it was his settled willThe pale-face foe should die,Yet still he feels ’ twould better suitHis prowess and his pride,If warriors’ arms in the battle-fieldThe deadly strife had tried.
He paused and look’d at PowhatanFor some approving word;But a bitter sigh from MetokaWas the only sound he heard.‘If it is done, then be it so,’The monarch said, at last;‘Though rather would I see them fall‘By the spirit’s lightning blast;‘Or that our arms in open fight‘Might hurl the deadly blow,‘And show them Powhatan has power‘To conquer any foe.‘But if the deed is done, ’tis well—‘The agent or the hour‘We will not question, if it serve‘To crush their growing power.‘Come, let us to the lodge retire;‘Thou’lt rest with us to-night:‘The clouds rise dark; the lightning fires‘Flash with a fiercer light.’Now sitting in the lodge, they talkOf their mighty pale-face foe:Pamunky broods with secret joyUpon the impending blow;But Powhatan walks up and downWith sadness in his eye;For though it was his settled willThe pale-face foe should die,Yet still he feels ’ twould better suitHis prowess and his pride,If warriors’ arms in the battle-fieldThe deadly strife had tried.
He paused and look’d at PowhatanFor some approving word;But a bitter sigh from MetokaWas the only sound he heard.‘If it is done, then be it so,’The monarch said, at last;‘Though rather would I see them fall‘By the spirit’s lightning blast;‘Or that our arms in open fight‘Might hurl the deadly blow,‘And show them Powhatan has power‘To conquer any foe.‘But if the deed is done, ’tis well—‘The agent or the hour‘We will not question, if it serve‘To crush their growing power.‘Come, let us to the lodge retire;‘Thou’lt rest with us to-night:‘The clouds rise dark; the lightning fires‘Flash with a fiercer light.’Now sitting in the lodge, they talkOf their mighty pale-face foe:Pamunky broods with secret joyUpon the impending blow;But Powhatan walks up and downWith sadness in his eye;For though it was his settled willThe pale-face foe should die,Yet still he feels ’ twould better suitHis prowess and his pride,If warriors’ arms in the battle-fieldThe deadly strife had tried.
And now all silent in the lodge,The chiefs are both at rest;But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughtsFair Metoka oppress’d.She loved her sire, she loved his land:She loved them as her life—What feeling in her heart is nowWith that pure love at strife?’ Tis pity, pleading for the livesOf those who soon must fall—It pleadeth with an angel’s voice,And loud as a trumpet-call.Mayhap another feeling tooIts secret influence wroughtIn her pure heart; but if ’ twere so,She understood it not—But true it was, that since Sir JohnFirst pass’d before her sight,Somethingwas twining round her heart;She felt it day and night.Her heart is sad, her bosom bleedsFor the cruel fate of those,In whom she knows no crime or fault,Nor can she deem them foes.Alone and restless she looks outUpon the fearful night;The warring elements are there,The lightning fires gleam bright;She hears the muttering thunders growlAlong the distant hills,And many a pause the thunders makeThe wolves’ wild howling fills.The awful clouds roll high and dark,The winds have a roaring, sound,The branches from stout trees are tornAnd hurl’d upon the ground;And now the rain in torrents falls—How her feeble limbs do shake!Such gloom without, such grief within,Her young heart sure must break.
And now all silent in the lodge,The chiefs are both at rest;But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughtsFair Metoka oppress’d.She loved her sire, she loved his land:She loved them as her life—What feeling in her heart is nowWith that pure love at strife?’ Tis pity, pleading for the livesOf those who soon must fall—It pleadeth with an angel’s voice,And loud as a trumpet-call.Mayhap another feeling tooIts secret influence wroughtIn her pure heart; but if ’ twere so,She understood it not—But true it was, that since Sir JohnFirst pass’d before her sight,Somethingwas twining round her heart;She felt it day and night.Her heart is sad, her bosom bleedsFor the cruel fate of those,In whom she knows no crime or fault,Nor can she deem them foes.Alone and restless she looks outUpon the fearful night;The warring elements are there,The lightning fires gleam bright;She hears the muttering thunders growlAlong the distant hills,And many a pause the thunders makeThe wolves’ wild howling fills.The awful clouds roll high and dark,The winds have a roaring, sound,The branches from stout trees are tornAnd hurl’d upon the ground;And now the rain in torrents falls—How her feeble limbs do shake!Such gloom without, such grief within,Her young heart sure must break.
And now all silent in the lodge,The chiefs are both at rest;But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughtsFair Metoka oppress’d.She loved her sire, she loved his land:She loved them as her life—What feeling in her heart is nowWith that pure love at strife?’ Tis pity, pleading for the livesOf those who soon must fall—It pleadeth with an angel’s voice,And loud as a trumpet-call.Mayhap another feeling tooIts secret influence wroughtIn her pure heart; but if ’ twere so,She understood it not—But true it was, that since Sir JohnFirst pass’d before her sight,Somethingwas twining round her heart;She felt it day and night.Her heart is sad, her bosom bleedsFor the cruel fate of those,In whom she knows no crime or fault,Nor can she deem them foes.Alone and restless she looks outUpon the fearful night;The warring elements are there,The lightning fires gleam bright;She hears the muttering thunders growlAlong the distant hills,And many a pause the thunders makeThe wolves’ wild howling fills.The awful clouds roll high and dark,The winds have a roaring, sound,The branches from stout trees are tornAnd hurl’d upon the ground;And now the rain in torrents falls—How her feeble limbs do shake!Such gloom without, such grief within,Her young heart sure must break.
But Jamestown’s death-devoted sonsIn conscious safety rest;The natives, months before, had ceasedThe pale-face to molest;Pamunky’s rich and generous giftTheir confidence increased,And on the morrow all would shareIn joyfulness their feast.’ Tis now the darkest midnight hour,But yet Sir John sleeps not—He listeth to the storm without;The rain beats down like shotAgainst the wall and on the roof;The wind is strong and high,And bellowing thunders burst and rollAthwart the troubled sky.A moment’s pause—what sound is that?A light tap at the door—Can mortal be abroad to-night?That feeble tap once more—He opes the door; his dim light fallsUpon a slender form—The monarch’s daughter standeth there,Like a spirit of the storm!Through dark wild woods, in that fearful night,She had peril’d life and limb,And suffer’d all but death to bringSafety and life to him.And now, her object gain’d, she turnsIn haste her home to seek—Sir John such strong emotion feels,At first he scarce can speak:But soon he urged her, while the stormWas raging, to remain;But she with earnestness replied,‘I must not heed the rain.’‘But the night is dark, the way is rough,‘Till morning you must stay—’With tears she said, ‘Imustreturn‘Before the break of day.’‘Then I will go with a file of men‘To guard you on your way—’But still her eyes with tears were fill’d,And still she answer’d nay—‘Through woods and rain to my father’s lodge‘I must return alone,‘And never must my father know‘The errand I have done.’And away she flew from the cottage door,To the forest wild again:Sir John upon the darkness look’d,And listen’d to the rain;And still he look’d where the pathway layAcross the distant field,Until the lightning’s sudden flashHer flying form reveal’d;And still with sad and anxious thoughtAnd moveless eyes he stood,Till he saw her by another flashEnter the midnight wood.{24}
But Jamestown’s death-devoted sonsIn conscious safety rest;The natives, months before, had ceasedThe pale-face to molest;Pamunky’s rich and generous giftTheir confidence increased,And on the morrow all would shareIn joyfulness their feast.’ Tis now the darkest midnight hour,But yet Sir John sleeps not—He listeth to the storm without;The rain beats down like shotAgainst the wall and on the roof;The wind is strong and high,And bellowing thunders burst and rollAthwart the troubled sky.A moment’s pause—what sound is that?A light tap at the door—Can mortal be abroad to-night?That feeble tap once more—He opes the door; his dim light fallsUpon a slender form—The monarch’s daughter standeth there,Like a spirit of the storm!Through dark wild woods, in that fearful night,She had peril’d life and limb,And suffer’d all but death to bringSafety and life to him.And now, her object gain’d, she turnsIn haste her home to seek—Sir John such strong emotion feels,At first he scarce can speak:But soon he urged her, while the stormWas raging, to remain;But she with earnestness replied,‘I must not heed the rain.’‘But the night is dark, the way is rough,‘Till morning you must stay—’With tears she said, ‘Imustreturn‘Before the break of day.’‘Then I will go with a file of men‘To guard you on your way—’But still her eyes with tears were fill’d,And still she answer’d nay—‘Through woods and rain to my father’s lodge‘I must return alone,‘And never must my father know‘The errand I have done.’And away she flew from the cottage door,To the forest wild again:Sir John upon the darkness look’d,And listen’d to the rain;And still he look’d where the pathway layAcross the distant field,Until the lightning’s sudden flashHer flying form reveal’d;And still with sad and anxious thoughtAnd moveless eyes he stood,Till he saw her by another flashEnter the midnight wood.{24}
But Jamestown’s death-devoted sonsIn conscious safety rest;The natives, months before, had ceasedThe pale-face to molest;Pamunky’s rich and generous giftTheir confidence increased,And on the morrow all would shareIn joyfulness their feast.’ Tis now the darkest midnight hour,But yet Sir John sleeps not—He listeth to the storm without;The rain beats down like shotAgainst the wall and on the roof;The wind is strong and high,And bellowing thunders burst and rollAthwart the troubled sky.A moment’s pause—what sound is that?A light tap at the door—Can mortal be abroad to-night?That feeble tap once more—He opes the door; his dim light fallsUpon a slender form—The monarch’s daughter standeth there,Like a spirit of the storm!Through dark wild woods, in that fearful night,She had peril’d life and limb,And suffer’d all but death to bringSafety and life to him.And now, her object gain’d, she turnsIn haste her home to seek—Sir John such strong emotion feels,At first he scarce can speak:But soon he urged her, while the stormWas raging, to remain;But she with earnestness replied,‘I must not heed the rain.’‘But the night is dark, the way is rough,‘Till morning you must stay—’With tears she said, ‘Imustreturn‘Before the break of day.’‘Then I will go with a file of men‘To guard you on your way—’But still her eyes with tears were fill’d,And still she answer’d nay—‘Through woods and rain to my father’s lodge‘I must return alone,‘And never must my father know‘The errand I have done.’And away she flew from the cottage door,To the forest wild again:Sir John upon the darkness look’d,And listen’d to the rain;And still he look’d where the pathway layAcross the distant field,Until the lightning’s sudden flashHer flying form reveal’d;And still with sad and anxious thoughtAnd moveless eyes he stood,Till he saw her by another flashEnter the midnight wood.{24}
Day came and went—another pass’d—And now a week has gone—The dark-brow’d chiefs are puzzled much,That the pale-face men live on.Early and late had PowhatanBeen out on the calm hill-side,But on the air no death-wail cameAt morn or eventide:And when his spies, returning homeFrom Jamestown day by day,Told him the pale-face tree was green,Nor blight upon it lay,The doubting monarch shook his head,And on his daughter castA look more chilling to her heartThan winter’s dreary blast.But not a word the monarch spoke;His thought he never told;Though she could often in his eyeThat dreadful glance behold.And though in all his troubled hoursTo give him peace she strove,And though she tried all tender waysTo touch his heart with love;And though sometimes he smiled on her,As once he used to smile,Yet in his eye that cheerless lookWas lurking all the while;And Metoka for many a dayHis lost love did deplore,And felt that her sweet peace of mindWas gone forevermore.Lonely and sad one day she satIn her bower beside the spring,When coming from the woods she sawApproach Pamunky’s king.He was her uncle, and though roughTo others he might prove,To Metoka he nought had shownBut tenderness and love.Then with a sad confiding lookShe towards Pamunky ran,Who told her he had come to bringGreat news to Powhatan;And straightway to the council-hallHe led her by the hand,Where chiefs and warriors eagerlyAround the monarch stand,In deep debate, devising meansTo crush the pale-face race;But all, when came Pamunky’s king,Stood back to give him place.
Day came and went—another pass’d—And now a week has gone—The dark-brow’d chiefs are puzzled much,That the pale-face men live on.Early and late had PowhatanBeen out on the calm hill-side,But on the air no death-wail cameAt morn or eventide:And when his spies, returning homeFrom Jamestown day by day,Told him the pale-face tree was green,Nor blight upon it lay,The doubting monarch shook his head,And on his daughter castA look more chilling to her heartThan winter’s dreary blast.But not a word the monarch spoke;His thought he never told;Though she could often in his eyeThat dreadful glance behold.And though in all his troubled hoursTo give him peace she strove,And though she tried all tender waysTo touch his heart with love;And though sometimes he smiled on her,As once he used to smile,Yet in his eye that cheerless lookWas lurking all the while;And Metoka for many a dayHis lost love did deplore,And felt that her sweet peace of mindWas gone forevermore.Lonely and sad one day she satIn her bower beside the spring,When coming from the woods she sawApproach Pamunky’s king.He was her uncle, and though roughTo others he might prove,To Metoka he nought had shownBut tenderness and love.Then with a sad confiding lookShe towards Pamunky ran,Who told her he had come to bringGreat news to Powhatan;And straightway to the council-hallHe led her by the hand,Where chiefs and warriors eagerlyAround the monarch stand,In deep debate, devising meansTo crush the pale-face race;But all, when came Pamunky’s king,Stood back to give him place.
Day came and went—another pass’d—And now a week has gone—The dark-brow’d chiefs are puzzled much,That the pale-face men live on.Early and late had PowhatanBeen out on the calm hill-side,But on the air no death-wail cameAt morn or eventide:And when his spies, returning homeFrom Jamestown day by day,Told him the pale-face tree was green,Nor blight upon it lay,The doubting monarch shook his head,And on his daughter castA look more chilling to her heartThan winter’s dreary blast.But not a word the monarch spoke;His thought he never told;Though she could often in his eyeThat dreadful glance behold.And though in all his troubled hoursTo give him peace she strove,And though she tried all tender waysTo touch his heart with love;And though sometimes he smiled on her,As once he used to smile,Yet in his eye that cheerless lookWas lurking all the while;And Metoka for many a dayHis lost love did deplore,And felt that her sweet peace of mindWas gone forevermore.Lonely and sad one day she satIn her bower beside the spring,When coming from the woods she sawApproach Pamunky’s king.He was her uncle, and though roughTo others he might prove,To Metoka he nought had shownBut tenderness and love.Then with a sad confiding lookShe towards Pamunky ran,Who told her he had come to bringGreat news to Powhatan;And straightway to the council-hallHe led her by the hand,Where chiefs and warriors eagerlyAround the monarch stand,In deep debate, devising meansTo crush the pale-face race;But all, when came Pamunky’s king,Stood back to give him place.
‘Your deep debate,’ Pamunky said,‘Ye may no longer hold,‘Nor longer fear our pale-face foe;‘His days at last are told.‘Their mighty werowance, Sir John,‘Who exercised such skill,‘That all the poison of our land‘Could not his people kill,‘His death-wound has received at last—‘From their strange fire it came;‘That fire which thunders in their hands,‘And burns with a lightning flame—‘That fire they brought across the sea,‘To hunt us from the earth,‘Has turn’d on them its serpent fang,‘And stung them to the death.‘I saw Sir John with his bleeding wounds,‘And his muffled face and head,‘Creep slowly to their tall ship’s deck,‘Like one that was near dead.‘And away that ship is sailing now‘Across the ocean wave,‘To carry Sir John to his English isle‘To rest in his English grave.‘And now this land is ours again;‘The rest of the pale-face crew‘We’ll brush away from our forest home,‘As we brush the drops of dew.’{25}Great joy then felt King Powhatan,Great joy felt all his men,And wild and loud were the shouts that madeTheir forests ring again.No more in long suspense and fearThey lay like a strong man bound,But light and free, the feast and songThrough all the tribes went round;And every hunter freely breathedAlong by the winding shore,And warriors trod their native woodsIn conscious pride once more.
‘Your deep debate,’ Pamunky said,‘Ye may no longer hold,‘Nor longer fear our pale-face foe;‘His days at last are told.‘Their mighty werowance, Sir John,‘Who exercised such skill,‘That all the poison of our land‘Could not his people kill,‘His death-wound has received at last—‘From their strange fire it came;‘That fire which thunders in their hands,‘And burns with a lightning flame—‘That fire they brought across the sea,‘To hunt us from the earth,‘Has turn’d on them its serpent fang,‘And stung them to the death.‘I saw Sir John with his bleeding wounds,‘And his muffled face and head,‘Creep slowly to their tall ship’s deck,‘Like one that was near dead.‘And away that ship is sailing now‘Across the ocean wave,‘To carry Sir John to his English isle‘To rest in his English grave.‘And now this land is ours again;‘The rest of the pale-face crew‘We’ll brush away from our forest home,‘As we brush the drops of dew.’{25}Great joy then felt King Powhatan,Great joy felt all his men,And wild and loud were the shouts that madeTheir forests ring again.No more in long suspense and fearThey lay like a strong man bound,But light and free, the feast and songThrough all the tribes went round;And every hunter freely breathedAlong by the winding shore,And warriors trod their native woodsIn conscious pride once more.
‘Your deep debate,’ Pamunky said,‘Ye may no longer hold,‘Nor longer fear our pale-face foe;‘His days at last are told.‘Their mighty werowance, Sir John,‘Who exercised such skill,‘That all the poison of our land‘Could not his people kill,‘His death-wound has received at last—‘From their strange fire it came;‘That fire which thunders in their hands,‘And burns with a lightning flame—‘That fire they brought across the sea,‘To hunt us from the earth,‘Has turn’d on them its serpent fang,‘And stung them to the death.‘I saw Sir John with his bleeding wounds,‘And his muffled face and head,‘Creep slowly to their tall ship’s deck,‘Like one that was near dead.‘And away that ship is sailing now‘Across the ocean wave,‘To carry Sir John to his English isle‘To rest in his English grave.‘And now this land is ours again;‘The rest of the pale-face crew‘We’ll brush away from our forest home,‘As we brush the drops of dew.’{25}Great joy then felt King Powhatan,Great joy felt all his men,And wild and loud were the shouts that madeTheir forests ring again.No more in long suspense and fearThey lay like a strong man bound,But light and free, the feast and songThrough all the tribes went round;And every hunter freely breathedAlong by the winding shore,And warriors trod their native woodsIn conscious pride once more.
But where’s the straggling colonist,Who came not home last night?His friends are out in search of himBy the earliest morning light.At last away in a lonely spot,His bleeding corpse is found;His scalp is off, and his gory headLies weltering on the ground.His wife in yonder graveyard sleeps:She long before had died;They feel it were a pious actTo place him by her side;And slow they bear the corse alongWhere the homeward pathway leads,But a deadly arrow cleaves the air,And another victim bleeds.They see no foe, they hear no sound,But they know that death is nigh;They fly, and leave the death-stricken oneAlone with the dead to die.
But where’s the straggling colonist,Who came not home last night?His friends are out in search of himBy the earliest morning light.At last away in a lonely spot,His bleeding corpse is found;His scalp is off, and his gory headLies weltering on the ground.His wife in yonder graveyard sleeps:She long before had died;They feel it were a pious actTo place him by her side;And slow they bear the corse alongWhere the homeward pathway leads,But a deadly arrow cleaves the air,And another victim bleeds.They see no foe, they hear no sound,But they know that death is nigh;They fly, and leave the death-stricken oneAlone with the dead to die.
But where’s the straggling colonist,Who came not home last night?His friends are out in search of himBy the earliest morning light.At last away in a lonely spot,His bleeding corpse is found;His scalp is off, and his gory headLies weltering on the ground.His wife in yonder graveyard sleeps:She long before had died;They feel it were a pious actTo place him by her side;And slow they bear the corse alongWhere the homeward pathway leads,But a deadly arrow cleaves the air,And another victim bleeds.They see no foe, they hear no sound,But they know that death is nigh;They fly, and leave the death-stricken oneAlone with the dead to die.
Now deep the sorrow, pale the fear,That fell on Jamestown’s sons;New forts are built, their swords new sharp’d,And loaded are their guns;And all their homes are picketed,And all their doors are barr’d,And fifty men with loaded armsBy day and night keep guard.And now they sadly wish Sir JohnWere there again to throwThe terror of his valiant armAround their savage foe.But where they could, and where they must,They still their labor plied,And in the field the farmer toil’dWith musket by his side.Oh, these were sad and fearful days;Death lurk’d in every sound;And English blood was often spiltLike water on the ground;And eagerly revenge and fearWatch’d every dark wood-side,And the sound of many a musket shotTold where an Indian died.
Now deep the sorrow, pale the fear,That fell on Jamestown’s sons;New forts are built, their swords new sharp’d,And loaded are their guns;And all their homes are picketed,And all their doors are barr’d,And fifty men with loaded armsBy day and night keep guard.And now they sadly wish Sir JohnWere there again to throwThe terror of his valiant armAround their savage foe.But where they could, and where they must,They still their labor plied,And in the field the farmer toil’dWith musket by his side.Oh, these were sad and fearful days;Death lurk’d in every sound;And English blood was often spiltLike water on the ground;And eagerly revenge and fearWatch’d every dark wood-side,And the sound of many a musket shotTold where an Indian died.
Now deep the sorrow, pale the fear,That fell on Jamestown’s sons;New forts are built, their swords new sharp’d,And loaded are their guns;And all their homes are picketed,And all their doors are barr’d,And fifty men with loaded armsBy day and night keep guard.And now they sadly wish Sir JohnWere there again to throwThe terror of his valiant armAround their savage foe.But where they could, and where they must,They still their labor plied,And in the field the farmer toil’dWith musket by his side.Oh, these were sad and fearful days;Death lurk’d in every sound;And English blood was often spiltLike water on the ground;And eagerly revenge and fearWatch’d every dark wood-side,And the sound of many a musket shotTold where an Indian died.
Where rests the monarch’s daughter now?Can she such scenes abide?She’s gone a far and weary way,To bright Potomac’s side.The coldness of her father’s eyeHas made her eye grow dim—Sir John has gone beyond the sea,And her heart is gone with him;And the sound of war, and the sight of blood,That stain’d her native wild,Have thrown a gloom on the weary lifeOf the fair and gentle child.She could not rest in her father’s lodge,Nor bide in her summer bower,But wander’d alone about the woods,And droop’d like a fading flower.The monarch watch’d her changing hueIn sunshine and in shade,And the father’s heart within him yearn’dWhen he saw her beauty fade.For fifteen years her joyous heart,And smiling cheek and eye,Had been the light of the old man’s life,And he could not see her die.
Where rests the monarch’s daughter now?Can she such scenes abide?She’s gone a far and weary way,To bright Potomac’s side.The coldness of her father’s eyeHas made her eye grow dim—Sir John has gone beyond the sea,And her heart is gone with him;And the sound of war, and the sight of blood,That stain’d her native wild,Have thrown a gloom on the weary lifeOf the fair and gentle child.She could not rest in her father’s lodge,Nor bide in her summer bower,But wander’d alone about the woods,And droop’d like a fading flower.The monarch watch’d her changing hueIn sunshine and in shade,And the father’s heart within him yearn’dWhen he saw her beauty fade.For fifteen years her joyous heart,And smiling cheek and eye,Had been the light of the old man’s life,And he could not see her die.
Where rests the monarch’s daughter now?Can she such scenes abide?She’s gone a far and weary way,To bright Potomac’s side.The coldness of her father’s eyeHas made her eye grow dim—Sir John has gone beyond the sea,And her heart is gone with him;And the sound of war, and the sight of blood,That stain’d her native wild,Have thrown a gloom on the weary lifeOf the fair and gentle child.She could not rest in her father’s lodge,Nor bide in her summer bower,But wander’d alone about the woods,And droop’d like a fading flower.The monarch watch’d her changing hueIn sunshine and in shade,And the father’s heart within him yearn’dWhen he saw her beauty fade.For fifteen years her joyous heart,And smiling cheek and eye,Had been the light of the old man’s life,And he could not see her die.
He call’d her to his side, and said,With kind and gentle tone,‘Why does my daughter weep all day,‘And wander thus alone?‘These days are evil days, my child,‘But long they will not last;‘I would thou hadst a safe retreat‘Till the raging storm be past.‘Potomac’s skies are bright and blue,‘Potomac’s groves are green,‘And brightly roll Potomac’s waves‘Her lovely banks between;‘And gladly would King Japazaws‘All friendly rites extend‘To the daughter of King Powhatan,‘His sovereign and his friend.‘Then go, my child, and rest awhile‘On fair Potomac’s side;‘There will thy days glide gently on,‘As the peaceful waters glide;‘And there young health will come again‘And kiss thy fading cheek,‘And in thy cheerful voice once more‘Thy mother’s soul will speak.‘No sound of war will there disturb‘Thy silent rest at night,‘Nor wilt thou wake to the sight of blood‘When comes the morning light.‘And when from our dark-shadow’d land‘The clouds shall all pass o’er,‘And all these strange and dreadful foes‘Are driven from our shore,‘Thou’lt come again, all life and love,‘In thy father’s lodge to rest,‘And the closing days of Powhatan‘Will yet be bright and blest.’Thus spoke the monarch, and awayHis gentle child has gone,A weary way through pathless woods,Like a lost and lonely fawn;And now, a sweet transplanted flower,She breathes the balmy airOn fair Potomac’s sunny banks,And sheds her fragrance there.
He call’d her to his side, and said,With kind and gentle tone,‘Why does my daughter weep all day,‘And wander thus alone?‘These days are evil days, my child,‘But long they will not last;‘I would thou hadst a safe retreat‘Till the raging storm be past.‘Potomac’s skies are bright and blue,‘Potomac’s groves are green,‘And brightly roll Potomac’s waves‘Her lovely banks between;‘And gladly would King Japazaws‘All friendly rites extend‘To the daughter of King Powhatan,‘His sovereign and his friend.‘Then go, my child, and rest awhile‘On fair Potomac’s side;‘There will thy days glide gently on,‘As the peaceful waters glide;‘And there young health will come again‘And kiss thy fading cheek,‘And in thy cheerful voice once more‘Thy mother’s soul will speak.‘No sound of war will there disturb‘Thy silent rest at night,‘Nor wilt thou wake to the sight of blood‘When comes the morning light.‘And when from our dark-shadow’d land‘The clouds shall all pass o’er,‘And all these strange and dreadful foes‘Are driven from our shore,‘Thou’lt come again, all life and love,‘In thy father’s lodge to rest,‘And the closing days of Powhatan‘Will yet be bright and blest.’Thus spoke the monarch, and awayHis gentle child has gone,A weary way through pathless woods,Like a lost and lonely fawn;And now, a sweet transplanted flower,She breathes the balmy airOn fair Potomac’s sunny banks,And sheds her fragrance there.
He call’d her to his side, and said,With kind and gentle tone,‘Why does my daughter weep all day,‘And wander thus alone?‘These days are evil days, my child,‘But long they will not last;‘I would thou hadst a safe retreat‘Till the raging storm be past.‘Potomac’s skies are bright and blue,‘Potomac’s groves are green,‘And brightly roll Potomac’s waves‘Her lovely banks between;‘And gladly would King Japazaws‘All friendly rites extend‘To the daughter of King Powhatan,‘His sovereign and his friend.‘Then go, my child, and rest awhile‘On fair Potomac’s side;‘There will thy days glide gently on,‘As the peaceful waters glide;‘And there young health will come again‘And kiss thy fading cheek,‘And in thy cheerful voice once more‘Thy mother’s soul will speak.‘No sound of war will there disturb‘Thy silent rest at night,‘Nor wilt thou wake to the sight of blood‘When comes the morning light.‘And when from our dark-shadow’d land‘The clouds shall all pass o’er,‘And all these strange and dreadful foes‘Are driven from our shore,‘Thou’lt come again, all life and love,‘In thy father’s lodge to rest,‘And the closing days of Powhatan‘Will yet be bright and blest.’Thus spoke the monarch, and awayHis gentle child has gone,A weary way through pathless woods,Like a lost and lonely fawn;And now, a sweet transplanted flower,She breathes the balmy airOn fair Potomac’s sunny banks,And sheds her fragrance there.
END OF CANTO SIXTH.
Stillfar along the winding JamesWar’s muttering thunders ran,And dark and gloomy clouds hung roundThe hills of Powhatan;And, as the storm more threatening seem’d,The savage fiercer grew,And thick around the settlementsHis hurtling arrows flew.As Powhatan in council satAmong his warriors brave,And for the coming night’s campaignHis bloody orders gave,Old Japazaws, who came not thereFor many months before,With hurrying step and haggard lookCame tottering to the door.Each voice was hush’d, and every eyeLook’d anxiously about,For well they knew no light affairHad brought the old chief out.
Stillfar along the winding JamesWar’s muttering thunders ran,And dark and gloomy clouds hung roundThe hills of Powhatan;And, as the storm more threatening seem’d,The savage fiercer grew,And thick around the settlementsHis hurtling arrows flew.As Powhatan in council satAmong his warriors brave,And for the coming night’s campaignHis bloody orders gave,Old Japazaws, who came not thereFor many months before,With hurrying step and haggard lookCame tottering to the door.Each voice was hush’d, and every eyeLook’d anxiously about,For well they knew no light affairHad brought the old chief out.
Stillfar along the winding JamesWar’s muttering thunders ran,And dark and gloomy clouds hung roundThe hills of Powhatan;And, as the storm more threatening seem’d,The savage fiercer grew,And thick around the settlementsHis hurtling arrows flew.As Powhatan in council satAmong his warriors brave,And for the coming night’s campaignHis bloody orders gave,Old Japazaws, who came not thereFor many months before,With hurrying step and haggard lookCame tottering to the door.Each voice was hush’d, and every eyeLook’d anxiously about,For well they knew no light affairHad brought the old chief out.
‘Speak, Japazaws,’ with sadden’d tone,The anxious monarch said;‘Another cloud of blackness now‘Is settling o’er my head—‘Soon as I saw thy steps approach,‘I felt it in the air,‘I felt it in my aching heart,‘I felt it every where.‘I see it now in thy speaking eye,‘So sorrowful and wild—‘Speak out thy thoughts, and tell what blight‘Has come upon my child.’
‘Speak, Japazaws,’ with sadden’d tone,The anxious monarch said;‘Another cloud of blackness now‘Is settling o’er my head—‘Soon as I saw thy steps approach,‘I felt it in the air,‘I felt it in my aching heart,‘I felt it every where.‘I see it now in thy speaking eye,‘So sorrowful and wild—‘Speak out thy thoughts, and tell what blight‘Has come upon my child.’
‘Speak, Japazaws,’ with sadden’d tone,The anxious monarch said;‘Another cloud of blackness now‘Is settling o’er my head—‘Soon as I saw thy steps approach,‘I felt it in the air,‘I felt it in my aching heart,‘I felt it every where.‘I see it now in thy speaking eye,‘So sorrowful and wild—‘Speak out thy thoughts, and tell what blight‘Has come upon my child.’
‘Oh, sad the tale I have to tell,’The trembling chief replied,‘And gladly to have saved thy child,‘Would Japazaws have died.‘Like a beam of light fair Metoka‘Went dancing through our grove,‘Her voice was like the nightingale,‘Her spirit like the dove,‘And every thing was happier,‘On which her brightness shone;‘Such innocence and love were hers,‘We loved her as our own.‘But, oh, the cruel pale-face came,‘In his shallop dark and tall,‘And he seized her on the river bank—‘We heard her feeble call,‘And ran to rescue, but in vain;‘They bore her from the shore,‘Away, away, and much I fear‘Thou’lt never see her more.’{26}
‘Oh, sad the tale I have to tell,’The trembling chief replied,‘And gladly to have saved thy child,‘Would Japazaws have died.‘Like a beam of light fair Metoka‘Went dancing through our grove,‘Her voice was like the nightingale,‘Her spirit like the dove,‘And every thing was happier,‘On which her brightness shone;‘Such innocence and love were hers,‘We loved her as our own.‘But, oh, the cruel pale-face came,‘In his shallop dark and tall,‘And he seized her on the river bank—‘We heard her feeble call,‘And ran to rescue, but in vain;‘They bore her from the shore,‘Away, away, and much I fear‘Thou’lt never see her more.’{26}
‘Oh, sad the tale I have to tell,’The trembling chief replied,‘And gladly to have saved thy child,‘Would Japazaws have died.‘Like a beam of light fair Metoka‘Went dancing through our grove,‘Her voice was like the nightingale,‘Her spirit like the dove,‘And every thing was happier,‘On which her brightness shone;‘Such innocence and love were hers,‘We loved her as our own.‘But, oh, the cruel pale-face came,‘In his shallop dark and tall,‘And he seized her on the river bank—‘We heard her feeble call,‘And ran to rescue, but in vain;‘They bore her from the shore,‘Away, away, and much I fear‘Thou’lt never see her more.’{26}
The aged monarch bow’d his headIn bitterness of wo;In all his long eventful lifeThis was the deadliest blow.In manhood’s prime he had look’d onAnd seen his kindred die,Without one muscle quivering,Without one tear or sigh.Two generations he had seenSwept from his wide domain;And war, and peace, and lapse of years,Had battled him in vain;But when this last, this brightest hopeWas torn from him apart,It shook the strength of his iron frame,And pierced him to the heart.The eyes of his fierce warriors glow’dAnd flash’d with living fire;And leave to fly and leave to fightIs all they now require.Pamunky rises in his might,His voice is loud and high—‘This instant let us seek the foe,‘And cut him down or die.’Like an angry tiger, NantaquasSends fiery glances round,And clutching his huge war-club, growls,And fiercely beats the ground;And a hundred warriors seize their armsAnd foam like a raging flood;And a hundred voices cry with thirstFor a taste of English blood.But while they raged with furious heat,And long’d for the coming fight,A swiftly flying messengerFrom the forest came in sight.’Twas faithful Rawhunt—six long daysAt Jamestown he had been,A captive in the picket fort—How came he free again?He rushes to the council-hallAnd stands before the king,And listening warriors bend to hearWhat tidings he may bring.
The aged monarch bow’d his headIn bitterness of wo;In all his long eventful lifeThis was the deadliest blow.In manhood’s prime he had look’d onAnd seen his kindred die,Without one muscle quivering,Without one tear or sigh.Two generations he had seenSwept from his wide domain;And war, and peace, and lapse of years,Had battled him in vain;But when this last, this brightest hopeWas torn from him apart,It shook the strength of his iron frame,And pierced him to the heart.The eyes of his fierce warriors glow’dAnd flash’d with living fire;And leave to fly and leave to fightIs all they now require.Pamunky rises in his might,His voice is loud and high—‘This instant let us seek the foe,‘And cut him down or die.’Like an angry tiger, NantaquasSends fiery glances round,And clutching his huge war-club, growls,And fiercely beats the ground;And a hundred warriors seize their armsAnd foam like a raging flood;And a hundred voices cry with thirstFor a taste of English blood.But while they raged with furious heat,And long’d for the coming fight,A swiftly flying messengerFrom the forest came in sight.’Twas faithful Rawhunt—six long daysAt Jamestown he had been,A captive in the picket fort—How came he free again?He rushes to the council-hallAnd stands before the king,And listening warriors bend to hearWhat tidings he may bring.
The aged monarch bow’d his headIn bitterness of wo;In all his long eventful lifeThis was the deadliest blow.In manhood’s prime he had look’d onAnd seen his kindred die,Without one muscle quivering,Without one tear or sigh.Two generations he had seenSwept from his wide domain;And war, and peace, and lapse of years,Had battled him in vain;But when this last, this brightest hopeWas torn from him apart,It shook the strength of his iron frame,And pierced him to the heart.The eyes of his fierce warriors glow’dAnd flash’d with living fire;And leave to fly and leave to fightIs all they now require.Pamunky rises in his might,His voice is loud and high—‘This instant let us seek the foe,‘And cut him down or die.’Like an angry tiger, NantaquasSends fiery glances round,And clutching his huge war-club, growls,And fiercely beats the ground;And a hundred warriors seize their armsAnd foam like a raging flood;And a hundred voices cry with thirstFor a taste of English blood.But while they raged with furious heat,And long’d for the coming fight,A swiftly flying messengerFrom the forest came in sight.’Twas faithful Rawhunt—six long daysAt Jamestown he had been,A captive in the picket fort—How came he free again?He rushes to the council-hallAnd stands before the king,And listening warriors bend to hearWhat tidings he may bring.
‘O, sire,’ the faithful servant said,‘Would that the pale-face foe‘Had sent his lightning through the heart‘Of Rawhunt long ago;‘Then had I never lived to see‘The sorrow and distress‘Of that sweet child, whose life has been‘All love and tenderness.‘They led her to the inner fort—‘I saw her as she pass’d;‘Her head was bent like a dying flower,‘And her tears were falling fast.‘And then their council bade me bear‘This message to my king,‘And ere the setting sun goes down‘His answer back to bring.‘The pale-face now, of Powhatan,‘Demands that war shall cease,‘And holds his daughter as a pledge‘That he will live at peace;‘But if another white man falls,‘Or a drop of blood is shed,‘That instant shall the monarch’s child‘Sleep with the sleeping dead.‘Twelve circling moons a captive bound‘Must Metoka remain,‘And if good faith be kept till then,‘She shall be free again.‘And more than this, great Powhatan‘His royal word must give‘To keep the truce, if he would have‘His daughter longer live;‘And I must fly with the monarch’s pledge,‘As swift as the eagle flies,‘For if the pledge come not to-night,‘This night his daughter dies.’He ceased, and silence fill’d the hall,Like midnight deep and still;All eyes were bent on Powhatan,Waiting the monarch’s will.
‘O, sire,’ the faithful servant said,‘Would that the pale-face foe‘Had sent his lightning through the heart‘Of Rawhunt long ago;‘Then had I never lived to see‘The sorrow and distress‘Of that sweet child, whose life has been‘All love and tenderness.‘They led her to the inner fort—‘I saw her as she pass’d;‘Her head was bent like a dying flower,‘And her tears were falling fast.‘And then their council bade me bear‘This message to my king,‘And ere the setting sun goes down‘His answer back to bring.‘The pale-face now, of Powhatan,‘Demands that war shall cease,‘And holds his daughter as a pledge‘That he will live at peace;‘But if another white man falls,‘Or a drop of blood is shed,‘That instant shall the monarch’s child‘Sleep with the sleeping dead.‘Twelve circling moons a captive bound‘Must Metoka remain,‘And if good faith be kept till then,‘She shall be free again.‘And more than this, great Powhatan‘His royal word must give‘To keep the truce, if he would have‘His daughter longer live;‘And I must fly with the monarch’s pledge,‘As swift as the eagle flies,‘For if the pledge come not to-night,‘This night his daughter dies.’He ceased, and silence fill’d the hall,Like midnight deep and still;All eyes were bent on Powhatan,Waiting the monarch’s will.
‘O, sire,’ the faithful servant said,‘Would that the pale-face foe‘Had sent his lightning through the heart‘Of Rawhunt long ago;‘Then had I never lived to see‘The sorrow and distress‘Of that sweet child, whose life has been‘All love and tenderness.‘They led her to the inner fort—‘I saw her as she pass’d;‘Her head was bent like a dying flower,‘And her tears were falling fast.‘And then their council bade me bear‘This message to my king,‘And ere the setting sun goes down‘His answer back to bring.‘The pale-face now, of Powhatan,‘Demands that war shall cease,‘And holds his daughter as a pledge‘That he will live at peace;‘But if another white man falls,‘Or a drop of blood is shed,‘That instant shall the monarch’s child‘Sleep with the sleeping dead.‘Twelve circling moons a captive bound‘Must Metoka remain,‘And if good faith be kept till then,‘She shall be free again.‘And more than this, great Powhatan‘His royal word must give‘To keep the truce, if he would have‘His daughter longer live;‘And I must fly with the monarch’s pledge,‘As swift as the eagle flies,‘For if the pledge come not to-night,‘This night his daughter dies.’He ceased, and silence fill’d the hall,Like midnight deep and still;All eyes were bent on Powhatan,Waiting the monarch’s will.
Then slowly look’d the old chief round;In his eye a strange light shone,And slowly these brief words he spokeIn a strange and solemn tone.‘The Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘For vain the power of man‘To strive against the Spirit’s power:‘Gladly would Powhatan,‘Alone, unaided, meet the foe,‘And all his host defy—‘But the Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘That daughter must not die.’Fair wampum-belts of shining hueWere hanging on the wall;The monarch took from its resting-placeThe richest one of all;And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm,He bade him speed his flight,And bear it to the pale-face chiefsEre fall the shades of night;And tell them, ‘Powhatan accepts‘The proffer they have made:‘If they are faithful to the truce,‘’Twill be by him obey’d.’Swiftly the faithful Rawhunt flewAway through the distant wood;But the monarch still among his chiefsLike a solemn statue stood.At last, with sadden’d look and tone,The chiefs he thus address’d:‘The old tree cannot always last;‘The monarch needeth rest.‘While twelve fair moons in quietness‘Shall run their circling round,‘No war-whoop will awake the woods,‘No blood will stain the ground.‘Till then, to a solitary lodge‘Will Powhatan depart,‘And rest his head from weary cares,‘And rest his weary heart.‘Meantime let brave Pamunky’s king‘Our sovereign sceptre sway,‘And him, instead of Powhatan,‘Let all the tribes obey.’He said—and slowly round the hallA sober look he cast;A lingering, doubting, troubled look,As though it were the last;And taking up his bow and club,That lean’d against the wall,The monarch turn’d with stately stepAnd left the silent hall.
Then slowly look’d the old chief round;In his eye a strange light shone,And slowly these brief words he spokeIn a strange and solemn tone.‘The Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘For vain the power of man‘To strive against the Spirit’s power:‘Gladly would Powhatan,‘Alone, unaided, meet the foe,‘And all his host defy—‘But the Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘That daughter must not die.’Fair wampum-belts of shining hueWere hanging on the wall;The monarch took from its resting-placeThe richest one of all;And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm,He bade him speed his flight,And bear it to the pale-face chiefsEre fall the shades of night;And tell them, ‘Powhatan accepts‘The proffer they have made:‘If they are faithful to the truce,‘’Twill be by him obey’d.’Swiftly the faithful Rawhunt flewAway through the distant wood;But the monarch still among his chiefsLike a solemn statue stood.At last, with sadden’d look and tone,The chiefs he thus address’d:‘The old tree cannot always last;‘The monarch needeth rest.‘While twelve fair moons in quietness‘Shall run their circling round,‘No war-whoop will awake the woods,‘No blood will stain the ground.‘Till then, to a solitary lodge‘Will Powhatan depart,‘And rest his head from weary cares,‘And rest his weary heart.‘Meantime let brave Pamunky’s king‘Our sovereign sceptre sway,‘And him, instead of Powhatan,‘Let all the tribes obey.’He said—and slowly round the hallA sober look he cast;A lingering, doubting, troubled look,As though it were the last;And taking up his bow and club,That lean’d against the wall,The monarch turn’d with stately stepAnd left the silent hall.
Then slowly look’d the old chief round;In his eye a strange light shone,And slowly these brief words he spokeIn a strange and solemn tone.‘The Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘For vain the power of man‘To strive against the Spirit’s power:‘Gladly would Powhatan,‘Alone, unaided, meet the foe,‘And all his host defy—‘But the Spirit wills it—we must yield—‘That daughter must not die.’Fair wampum-belts of shining hueWere hanging on the wall;The monarch took from its resting-placeThe richest one of all;And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm,He bade him speed his flight,And bear it to the pale-face chiefsEre fall the shades of night;And tell them, ‘Powhatan accepts‘The proffer they have made:‘If they are faithful to the truce,‘’Twill be by him obey’d.’Swiftly the faithful Rawhunt flewAway through the distant wood;But the monarch still among his chiefsLike a solemn statue stood.At last, with sadden’d look and tone,The chiefs he thus address’d:‘The old tree cannot always last;‘The monarch needeth rest.‘While twelve fair moons in quietness‘Shall run their circling round,‘No war-whoop will awake the woods,‘No blood will stain the ground.‘Till then, to a solitary lodge‘Will Powhatan depart,‘And rest his head from weary cares,‘And rest his weary heart.‘Meantime let brave Pamunky’s king‘Our sovereign sceptre sway,‘And him, instead of Powhatan,‘Let all the tribes obey.’He said—and slowly round the hallA sober look he cast;A lingering, doubting, troubled look,As though it were the last;And taking up his bow and club,That lean’d against the wall,The monarch turn’d with stately stepAnd left the silent hall.
Far up the ChickahominyThe banks are green and fair,And through the groves of OrapakesThere breathes a balmy air;And there beneath tall shady treesA quiet lodge is found;Bright birds are darting through the boughsAnd hopping on the ground;Refreshing waters from the hillsThrough groves and valleys glide;And gentle deer come down to drinkBy the cool river-side;And there among the stout old trees,From toil and conflict free,The aged monarch moves about,And muses silently.He sighs to think of his distant childAt night on his bed of fur:And if he sleep in the lonely hours,’Tis but to dream of her.And he thinks of her in his sunny walks,With the sportive deer about,And he thinks of her by the bending brookWhere glides the golden trout.
Far up the ChickahominyThe banks are green and fair,And through the groves of OrapakesThere breathes a balmy air;And there beneath tall shady treesA quiet lodge is found;Bright birds are darting through the boughsAnd hopping on the ground;Refreshing waters from the hillsThrough groves and valleys glide;And gentle deer come down to drinkBy the cool river-side;And there among the stout old trees,From toil and conflict free,The aged monarch moves about,And muses silently.He sighs to think of his distant childAt night on his bed of fur:And if he sleep in the lonely hours,’Tis but to dream of her.And he thinks of her in his sunny walks,With the sportive deer about,And he thinks of her by the bending brookWhere glides the golden trout.
Far up the ChickahominyThe banks are green and fair,And through the groves of OrapakesThere breathes a balmy air;And there beneath tall shady treesA quiet lodge is found;Bright birds are darting through the boughsAnd hopping on the ground;Refreshing waters from the hillsThrough groves and valleys glide;And gentle deer come down to drinkBy the cool river-side;And there among the stout old trees,From toil and conflict free,The aged monarch moves about,And muses silently.He sighs to think of his distant childAt night on his bed of fur:And if he sleep in the lonely hours,’Tis but to dream of her.And he thinks of her in his sunny walks,With the sportive deer about,And he thinks of her by the bending brookWhere glides the golden trout.
Long time had OpechancanoughA burning hatred borneAgainst the pale-face, who had causedHis native land to mourn.Sir John had led him by the hair,{27}With pistol at his breast;The rankling thought was a raging fire,That never let him rest.And the insult offer’d to his godHe never could forget,Till the sun of this whole hated raceIn night and blood should set.Sage Powhatan knew well the powerThe English arms possess’d,And made his warriors keep aloof,And their rash fire repress’d.But now Pamunky is the chief,Whom all the tribes obey,And vengeance its hot strife for bloodNo longer will delay.He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge,And talks of friendship’s chain,And tells how strong and bright it is,And long shall so remain;And all unarm’d his warriors roamThe colonists among,And words of peace and kindness flowFrom every Indian tongue.But in his deep and gloomy wilds,Where white man never came,He breathed into his warriors’ heartsHis bosom’s burning flame.And round and round, from tribe to tribe,Through many a summer’s night,He whisper’d dark words in their earsBeneath the dim starlight:And a thousand times those mutter’d wordsIn his low breath were said,And a thousand hearts their secret kept,As voiceless as the dead.He bade them think of Powhatan,An exile sad and lone;And the pleasant light of that lovely starThat once among them shone;He bade them think of Okee’s wrongsReceived from the pale-face crew;And the deadly shade that the pale-face treeFar over the land now threw.The secret fire is kindling well;A thousand hearts are strong,And a thousand eager warriors waitTo avenge their country’s wrong.
Long time had OpechancanoughA burning hatred borneAgainst the pale-face, who had causedHis native land to mourn.Sir John had led him by the hair,{27}With pistol at his breast;The rankling thought was a raging fire,That never let him rest.And the insult offer’d to his godHe never could forget,Till the sun of this whole hated raceIn night and blood should set.Sage Powhatan knew well the powerThe English arms possess’d,And made his warriors keep aloof,And their rash fire repress’d.But now Pamunky is the chief,Whom all the tribes obey,And vengeance its hot strife for bloodNo longer will delay.He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge,And talks of friendship’s chain,And tells how strong and bright it is,And long shall so remain;And all unarm’d his warriors roamThe colonists among,And words of peace and kindness flowFrom every Indian tongue.But in his deep and gloomy wilds,Where white man never came,He breathed into his warriors’ heartsHis bosom’s burning flame.And round and round, from tribe to tribe,Through many a summer’s night,He whisper’d dark words in their earsBeneath the dim starlight:And a thousand times those mutter’d wordsIn his low breath were said,And a thousand hearts their secret kept,As voiceless as the dead.He bade them think of Powhatan,An exile sad and lone;And the pleasant light of that lovely starThat once among them shone;He bade them think of Okee’s wrongsReceived from the pale-face crew;And the deadly shade that the pale-face treeFar over the land now threw.The secret fire is kindling well;A thousand hearts are strong,And a thousand eager warriors waitTo avenge their country’s wrong.
Long time had OpechancanoughA burning hatred borneAgainst the pale-face, who had causedHis native land to mourn.Sir John had led him by the hair,{27}With pistol at his breast;The rankling thought was a raging fire,That never let him rest.And the insult offer’d to his godHe never could forget,Till the sun of this whole hated raceIn night and blood should set.Sage Powhatan knew well the powerThe English arms possess’d,And made his warriors keep aloof,And their rash fire repress’d.But now Pamunky is the chief,Whom all the tribes obey,And vengeance its hot strife for bloodNo longer will delay.He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge,And talks of friendship’s chain,And tells how strong and bright it is,And long shall so remain;And all unarm’d his warriors roamThe colonists among,And words of peace and kindness flowFrom every Indian tongue.But in his deep and gloomy wilds,Where white man never came,He breathed into his warriors’ heartsHis bosom’s burning flame.And round and round, from tribe to tribe,Through many a summer’s night,He whisper’d dark words in their earsBeneath the dim starlight:And a thousand times those mutter’d wordsIn his low breath were said,And a thousand hearts their secret kept,As voiceless as the dead.He bade them think of Powhatan,An exile sad and lone;And the pleasant light of that lovely starThat once among them shone;He bade them think of Okee’s wrongsReceived from the pale-face crew;And the deadly shade that the pale-face treeFar over the land now threw.The secret fire is kindling well;A thousand hearts are strong,And a thousand eager warriors waitTo avenge their country’s wrong.
The day of blood arrives at last,When vengeance shall be hurl’dOn every pale-face in the land,And sweep him from the world.Through the silent night, in the upland groves,And down by the murky fen,And deep in the solitary wood,There’s a mustering of men—Old Chesapeake sends forth the tribesThat live along the shore;Potomac’s warriors, arm’d for death,Are on the march once more;Fierce Kecoughtans and NansamondsCreep noiselessly along;Pamunky’s valiant tribe sends outA band five hundred strong;And a hundred silent winding streams,By the twinkling stars’ dim light,Beheld dark warriors whisperingAlong their banks that night.Each band knew well its pathless routeIn darkness or in day:Each had its several task assign’d,And panted for its prey.They came where the outer settlementsWere skirted by the wood,And waiting for the appointed hour,In breathless silence stood.The gray tops of the cottagesGleam’d in the misty air;They look’d and listen’d eagerly—No light, no sound was there.No watchful guards with loaded armsIn field or fort appear;There lay the slumbering colonyWithout defence or fear.
The day of blood arrives at last,When vengeance shall be hurl’dOn every pale-face in the land,And sweep him from the world.Through the silent night, in the upland groves,And down by the murky fen,And deep in the solitary wood,There’s a mustering of men—Old Chesapeake sends forth the tribesThat live along the shore;Potomac’s warriors, arm’d for death,Are on the march once more;Fierce Kecoughtans and NansamondsCreep noiselessly along;Pamunky’s valiant tribe sends outA band five hundred strong;And a hundred silent winding streams,By the twinkling stars’ dim light,Beheld dark warriors whisperingAlong their banks that night.Each band knew well its pathless routeIn darkness or in day:Each had its several task assign’d,And panted for its prey.They came where the outer settlementsWere skirted by the wood,And waiting for the appointed hour,In breathless silence stood.The gray tops of the cottagesGleam’d in the misty air;They look’d and listen’d eagerly—No light, no sound was there.No watchful guards with loaded armsIn field or fort appear;There lay the slumbering colonyWithout defence or fear.
The day of blood arrives at last,When vengeance shall be hurl’dOn every pale-face in the land,And sweep him from the world.Through the silent night, in the upland groves,And down by the murky fen,And deep in the solitary wood,There’s a mustering of men—Old Chesapeake sends forth the tribesThat live along the shore;Potomac’s warriors, arm’d for death,Are on the march once more;Fierce Kecoughtans and NansamondsCreep noiselessly along;Pamunky’s valiant tribe sends outA band five hundred strong;And a hundred silent winding streams,By the twinkling stars’ dim light,Beheld dark warriors whisperingAlong their banks that night.Each band knew well its pathless routeIn darkness or in day:Each had its several task assign’d,And panted for its prey.They came where the outer settlementsWere skirted by the wood,And waiting for the appointed hour,In breathless silence stood.The gray tops of the cottagesGleam’d in the misty air;They look’d and listen’d eagerly—No light, no sound was there.No watchful guards with loaded armsIn field or fort appear;There lay the slumbering colonyWithout defence or fear.