V.

Why perish thus the exiled band,Where plenty teemeth in the land?For one abides among them thereWith hand to do and heart to dare,And in his eye and on his browAre deeds of daring written now,That to the fainting band shall beWarrant for their high destiny.

A gallant barge is on the tide,And stoutly twelve good oars are plied,Sir John the guiding helm commands,His loaded gun beside him stands,His broadsword glistens on his thigh,The woods are pierced by his beaming eye,As down by the river shore they sweep,Where the shadows of the forest sleep,Till their weary oars they rest awhileOn the fragrant banks of Cedar Isle.Not long they rest, but onward soon,Beneath the fervid glow of noon,In the glassy flood their oars they bend,And the vessel forward swiftly send,Till nearing now they clearly scanThe groves and beach of Kecoughtan.As nearer to the shore they drew,A warrior train appear’d in view,And each a bow and war-club bore,And now they reach the winding shore,And stand like statues, mute and still,Waiting to learn the bargemen’s will.Like rider reining in his steed,The oarsmen slacken now their speed,And slowly floats the barge alongClose to that wild and warlike throng,And as it grates upon the sandEach rower’s gun is in his hand.

Sir John in friendly accents spoke,And ask’d their king to see;They pointed to a shelter’d lodgeBeneath a giant tree;And when away where the old oak grewThey moved with haughty strides,Sir John and his little band march’d upAnd follow’d their grim guides.And here a village rose in sight,Where the woods look’d dark and wild,But silence reign’d in every lodge,Nor saw they man or child.Then spoke Sir John to his guides again,And ask’d their chief to see.They answer’d not, but away to the woodsThey pointed silently;And into the woods with quicken’d stepThey silently withdrew,And in their village left Sir JohnAlone with his vessel’s crew.But soon from the forest came againDark warriors with their bows,And painted men on every sideFrom brake and bush arose;And a warlike throng came up the path,That led from the river shore,And, moving quick, with hideous shouts,Their sacred Okee bore—Great Okee, whose mysterious powerIs in the earth and air,In fire and flood and stormy winds,And worketh every where.Great Okee, dress’d in painted robes,And shining chains and beads,Who in the silent night performsUnutterable deeds,And safely through the darkest hourHis faithful people leads—Great Okee cometh in the vanWith war-plume on his head;His brow is striped with black and white,His cheeks are gory red;And to the pale mysterious throngThey now are pressing near,But Okee cometh in the van,Why should his people fear?A sudden war-whoop, wild and fierce,Rings upward to the sky,And a hundred warriors draw their bows,And a hundred arrows fly.But answering muskets quick give backTo the woods a roaring sound;Each bowman flies, and Okee fallsAlone upon the ground.Sir John the painted idol took,{15}And bore it to the shore;And soon a suppliant priest came downIts ransom to implore.

The barge is on the tide again,And rapidly it flies,For long its coming has been watch’dBy anxious waiting eyes;And now those eyes are brightening,And hearts are beating light,And hope’s dim fires are lit anew,For plenty greets their sight.

The monarch was feasting in royal state,And many brave chiefs at the banquet sate:His hunters had brought in their choicest store,His fishers came loaded from Chesapeake’s shore;His menials hasten a feast to prepareFrom the mingled spoils of earth, ocean, and air,And a merry hum circled round the board,That so simply was spread and so richly was stored.Fair Metoka sat at the monarch’s right hand,The waiters stood watchful to do his command,{16}And while on his left his younger child,The gay Matachanna, look’d on him and smiled,And amid the guests, that graced his hall,His own valiant son was the pride of all,The patriarch monarch gave thanks from his heart,That the Spirit such blessings to him did impart.But a messenger comes from the spying scout,Which Powhatan’s caution kept constantly out,To watch every movement the pale-faces made,And see that his people went not there to trade.‘What tidings from Jamestown?’ the monarch inquires;‘Do the pale-faces thrive by their council-fires?‘Are their hearts as light as the wild-bird’s song?‘Do they walk like a people who feel they are strong?‘Do our tribes still obey our imperial command?’‘Or has food been bestow’d by a traitor’s hand?’—‘The tree of the pale-face is sapless and dried,’The messenger spy to the monarch replied;‘Its branches are wither’d, and sear’d is its leaf,‘And the reign of the pale-face is harmless and brief.‘No hand brings them food, their own fountain is dry;‘A blight is upon them, they fade and they die,‘And soon Powhatan will be rid of his foe,‘Without wielding the war-club or drawing the bow.’When the tale of the colonists’ woes was done,A smile sat on every brow save one:A murmur of joy spread the hall throughout,The warriors gave a triumphant shout;But while other hearts with delight beat high,Fair Metoka’s bosom still heaved with a sigh.

In the midst of that shouting and joyous uproarA Kecoughtan warrior rush’d in at the door;His visage was haggard, and flying his hair,From his restless eye shot a fiery glare,His breathing was quick, and his mantle was torn,His tough skin moccasins muddy and worn,And the only weapon he wielded or woreWas a war-club stout, which he dash’d on the floor.Every sound in that hall in a moment was hush’d,And the semblance of joy from each visage was brush’d.Not a word nor a whisper escaped from the crowd,Till Powhatan order’d that warrior aloud,His message, whate’er it might be, to make known,And declare why he came in such haste and alone.‘I come,’ said the warrior, ‘from Kecoughtan’s king,‘And appalling and sad are the tidings I bring:‘A cloud full of blackness is over us spread,‘And the thick bolts of heaven leap awful and red;‘Our god is dishonor’d, and soon will his ire‘Sweep the realm of the monarch with thunder and fire,‘Unless the foul insult be wash’d from the land‘By the hateful blood of the pale-face band.‘Sir John and his warriors have been to our shore,‘And their coming we long shall have cause to deplore;‘Our children no longer can quietly sleep,‘The wounds of our people are bloody and deep;‘With smoke and with fire, and a thundering sound,‘Great Okee was hurl’d like a chief to the ground,‘And dragg’d like a captive, and borne from the plain,‘And barter’d and sold like a deer that is slain.’

The messenger ceased, his voice was still;But from that hall a war-cry shrillRoll’d over river, grove, and hill,So loud, so sharp, so piercing clear,For miles around the startled deerRaised high their heads and snuff’d the breeze,Gazed through the distant opening trees,And arch’d their necks, and raised their feet,Then clear’d the ground with step so fleet,That soon the dark and silent glenSecured them from pursuit of men.Grim warriors smote their breasts, and cried,‘Vengeance shall humble pale-face pride;‘Away, away, to Jamestown’s shore,‘Our scalping-knives all thirst for gore.’Stout Nantaquas with furious lookAloft his knotted war-club shook;His bosom panted for the strifeOf war-club, battle-axe, or knife.Pamunky’s iron visage glow’dWith passion’s fire, as round he trode,And cross’d the hall from side to side,And shook it with his giant stride.Raged and foam’d Nemattanow,Rattled his quiver and strain’d his bow,And vow’d no sleep his eyes should know,Till he had tasted English blood,And avenged the insult to his god.But Powhatan sat like a rock,That moves not mid the tempest shock;And while he watch’d his people’s rage,Which he alone had power to assuage,Passions that his own visage wroughtShow’d equal fire, but more of thought.Sternly the monarch look’d around,And waved his hand: hush’d was each sound;The warriors bent a listening earTheir sovereign’s high behest to hear,While with rebuke and counsel boldHe soon their fiery mood controll’d.

‘Chiefs and warriors! why so high‘Are raised the shout and battle-cry?‘Why meet this strange mysterious foe,‘Before his power and arms ye know?‘In darkness would ye rush to fight,‘Or wait till ye can see the light?‘Why would ye grapple in his den‘The fierce and strong-arm’d panther, when,‘By waiting patiently awhile,‘He’ll surely fall within your toil?‘Calm your fierce rage, let reason show‘The way, the hour, to meet the foe.‘Great Okee’s wrongs must be repaid,‘But be the vengeful blow delayed.‘Meantime let scouts through grove and glen‘Watch every step of the pale-face men;‘Creep cautiously through bush and brake,‘Beside their path, like noiseless snake,‘And watch till the certain moment come,‘Then strike the death-blow deep and home.’

The feast was o’er, the guests were gone,Soon came the tranquil evening on,The bright moon rose above the trees,Soft blew the cooling summer breeze,And forth to enjoy the tranquil hourThe sisters sought their greenwood bower.Sweet wild-flowers grew around their seat,A fountain sparkled at their feet,On whose bright bosom trembling layThe dark tree-top and moon’s pale ray.Young Matachanna’s eye shone brightWith joy at all this lovely sight,But when on Metoka’s sweet faceThe moonbeam found a resting-place,It met a look of sadness there,That told her heart was press’d with care.‘Dear Metoka,’ her sister said,‘A tear is in your eye;‘Why are you sad when I am glad?‘Dear sister, tell me why.‘And when I smile and kiss your cheek,‘You answer with a sigh;‘There is a trembling in your voice;‘Dear sister, tell me why.’

‘O, Matachanna, o’er my life‘A dark cloud spreads its shade,‘And willingly would Metoka‘Be in the green earth laid.‘For then to that fair land where dwells‘My spirit-mother, I should go:‘But here abides no joy for me—‘I cannot love Nemattanow.‘And though rare presents he has brought‘To win me for his bride,‘And though he talks me very fair‘When sitting by my side,‘And though our father likes him well,‘And says that I must wed,‘I cannot love Nemattanow,‘I rather would be dead.‘They say that none among our tribes‘Can draw so true a bow,‘And none brings home so many scalps‘As does Nemattanow;‘And when the hunters’ spoils are shared,‘His is the largest part;‘But I cannot love Nemattanow,‘He has a cruel heart.‘I love to hear the wild-bird sing‘Unharm’d in the leafy tree,‘I love to see the gentle deer‘Through the forest running free;‘But ’tis Nemattanow’s delight‘To slay them with his dart:‘I cannot love Nemattanow,‘He has a cruel heart.‘He cares not for the sweetest flowers‘That grow beside the spring,‘He never saves a captive’s life,‘But a scalp will always bring:‘How could I live with such a man‘In his cabin away alone?‘His heart beats not with tenderness,‘’Tis hard as any stone.’

‘O, sister, do not grieve thee so,’Young Matachanna said,‘Our sire will never compel thee, dear,‘Against thy will to wed.‘Heis notcruel, who else may be;‘His love we oft have tried;‘And what we both have ask’d of him‘He never yet denied.‘I’ll put my arms about his neck‘And tell him of sister’s wo,‘And sure he’ll never compel thee, love,‘To wed Nemattanow.’

Now in the monarch’s quiet lodgeSleep comes its balm to bring,And o’er the young and innocentSpreads out its angel wing,And fans the trembling tear awayFrom the closed lids at rest,And steeps in soft forgetfulnessThe day-dreams of the breast.

Where rests Nemattanow the while?Is sleep to him as kind?And has it calm’d the passion-flame,That preys upon his mind?On his deer-skin soft, full six miles off,He has pillow’d his restless brain,And has turn’d himself from side to side,And tried to sleep in vain;For over his deep and burning thoughtsHis will has no control;He only thinks of Metoka,Whose beauty has fired his soul.Hour after hour he watch’d the moonSteal over his cabin floor,And the more he look’d upon its light,He thought of her the more;And if his fancy stray’d abroadIn the chase o’er plain and hill,Or wander’d by the moon-lit stream,Her image met him still.He rose and left his sleepless couch,And into the woods has gone;He crosses meadow, grove, and glen,And still he wanders on;And when on Metoka’s abodeFirst glanced the morning beam,Nemattanow was in the bowerBeside the fountain stream.And round that bower and through the groveHe linger’d all day long,To catch a glimpse of Metoka,Or listen to her song;And when her form glanced on his sight,Or her voice through the air rung clear,It sent a sun-light to his heart,And a joy upon his ear.But oh, how soon that sun-light fled,How quick that thrill of joy was dead,When recollection came againAnd whirl’d the thought across his brain,That since he brought with anxious careHis choicest presents to the fair,Four suns had risen and four had set,But his gifts were not accepted yet!

’Twas now the early twilight hour,That kindly comes with soothing powerTo calm the day’s tumultuous strife,And smooth the stormy waves of life.Nemattanow, with thoughtful eyeFix’d on the changeful evening sky,Lean’d him against an aged tree,Whose top for many a centuryHad bathed in the earliest beams of dayAnd felt the sun’s last setting ray.Out on a gentle hill-side stoodThis aged monarch of the wood,Whence Powhatan’s gray lodge was seen,His fields, and groves, and valleys green;And the younger trees on the sloping browAround this old trunk seem’d to bow,As if it had a right to beThe ruler of their destiny.The monarch loved this relic oldOf other days; perhaps the holdIt had upon his heart aroseFrom the charm similitude bestows,For the scenes of life around it thrownSeem’d but the shadowing of his own.

Now walking his accustom’d roundAt closing of the day,Old Powhatan the hill-side clomb,And look’d toward Paspahey,Where the English band had marr’d his grovesAnd made his forest bow,And bitter was the curse he breathed,And dark his frowning brow.And here beside his old loved treeReclined Nemattanow,Whose sadden’d eye and heaving breastBetray’d his secret wo.‘Let not the warrior’s eye grow sad,’The monarch gravely said,‘Because his gifts are not approved‘By a young light-hearted maid.‘It is not meet that Powhatan‘Should bid his daughter love‘The warrior, or receive his gifts,‘Unless her heart approve.‘But let the warrior bring to me‘The scalp of brave Sir John,‘And Metoka shall be his bride,‘And he the monarch’s son.’

New fire lit up the glowing eyesOf sad Nemattanow;He smote his war-club on the ground,And firmly grasp’d his bow;And tomahawk and scalping-knifeHe buckled to his side,Gave one fierce look toward Paspahey,And down the valley hied.

END OF CANTO THIRD.

Themoon look’d down with loving lightOn river, grove, and hill,And Jamestown slept in quietness,Her homes were closed and still;The evening prayer from pious lipsHad been address’d to heaven,And for relief from famine’s powerHad many thanks been given;And while his people were at restSir John was out alone,And walking by the river bank,Where the moon-lit waters shone,To see his vessel well securedAgainst the chafing wave.Fear not for him; Sir John was arm’d—And more, Sir John was brave.But as he turn’d him from the shore,His homeward route to trace,An arrow swift as light flew past—So near, it fann’d his face;And quick upon his pathway rush’dAn Indian, stout and tall.Sir John his faithful carbine drew,Well-charged with shot and ball;But though a squirrel he could bringFrom the highest forest bough,And though he took deliberate aim,His carbine fail’d him now.On came the savage, dark and fierce,Fire beaming from his eye,Leaping like tiger on his prey,His war-club raised on high;But when within ten feet he came,He made a sudden stand,For now Sir John’s bright sword was out,And flashing in his hand;And firm he stood and sternly look’dUpon his savage foe,In readiness, at every point,To give him blow for blow.A moment’s pause, and then againThe Indian forward sprang,And now against his falling clubSir John’s keen broadsword rang;And thrice the clash of club and swordEcho’d the woods around,And then the weapon of Sir JohnFell broken to the ground.At once he rush’d with desperate powerAnd grappled with his foe,And, face to face, he saw and knew’ Twas fierce Nemattanow.More deadly grew the conflict then;It was no feeble strife,When two such warriors, hand to hand,Were struggling, life for life.The hatchet of NemattanowBore a well-sharpen’d blade,And now to draw it from his beltHis hand was on it laid;But quick the strong arm of Sir JohnClasp’d the stout Indian round,And with a mighty effort broughtHis foeman to the ground.And as they fell, NemattanowClutch’d fast his flowing hair,And twisted it about his hand,As if he would prepareTo cut away his living scalpBefore he took his life;And now with vigorous gripe he seizedHis deadly scalping-knife.Again Sir John with iron nerveSummon’d his utmost strength;Their grapple, from the river side,Was scarcely twice his length;The grassy bank was smooth and steep,And dark and deep the flood—A moment more, that scalping-knifeWould surely drink his blood—With wiry spring and giant powerA sudden whirl he gave,And over and over, down they roll’d,And plunged beneath the wave.{17}

Now stealing through the forest treesThe ruddy morning broke,And, pouring in its dewy light,The slumbering monarch woke.He rose, and in his morning walk,To the sloping hill he hied,And there again by his old loved treeNemattanow he spied.Weary and worn the warrior seem’d,His temple show’d a wound,And dripping water from his hairWas moistening the ground.No quiver now was at his back,Nor war-club by his side;Nor battle-axe nor scalping-knifeHis enemies defied.But though all weaponless he stood,His look was bold and free,And proud his bearing was, like oneHigh flush’d with victory.

‘And hast thou met,’ said Powhatan,‘The foeman of our race?‘Methinks the joy of triumph now‘Is beaming from thy face.‘But wherefore art thou weaponless,‘And wounded, worn, and weak?‘And where’s the scalp of the mighty chief,‘Thou wentest forth to seek?’

‘I met that chief, and proved him well,’Nemattanow replied,‘And I left him down three fathoms deep‘Beneath the sluggish tide.‘Our people now through all our groves‘Their accustom’d walks may take,‘Nor start and cry, “There comes Sir John!”‘If a twig but chance to break.‘Our fight was bloody, long, and fierce;‘The moon alone look’d on,‘And none but the river-god can tell‘Where sleeps the brave Sir John.’

‘The daring deed was bravely done,’The joyful chief replied;‘For this, henceforth thou art my son,‘And Metoka thy bride.‘Three days a merry festival‘Thy triumph shall proclaim,‘And every grove through all our tribes‘Shall ring aloud thy name;‘And when these joyous days are past,‘Fair Metoka shall go,‘In all our choicest gifts array’d,‘To bless Nemattanow.’

Now through the halls of PowhatanThe voice of gladness wakes,And ringing out from hill to hillThe shout of triumph breaks.Stout warriors come with wampum beltsAnd robes of blue and red,And many a chief in rich attire,With war-plume on his head;And men and maidens in their joyThe hall of council throng,And every lodge and every groveEchoes with dance and song.And rich and plenteous is the feastOn every board spread out;Joy sparkles from a thousand eyes,High peals the merry shout;And loud and often in their gleeThey bless Nemattanow,Whose powerful arm had overcomeTheir strange and mighty foe.

And now, to appease great Okee’s ire,The priests with solemn careEnter the sacred temple halls,And mystic rites prepare—Those sacred halls where priests performTheir fearful mystery,Places by far too holy deem’dFor other eyes to see—Temples that shield from vulgar sight{18}A thousand holy things,Their idols, tombs, and imagesOf great and ancient kings.Out on a grassy, open spot,Are fagots piled on high,And leaping flame and rolling smokeAre towering to the sky;And there, to wait the priest’s return,Hundreds are gather’d round,To join the mystic revelry,And dance on holy ground—When lo! the solemn man comes forth{19}With slow and measured tread;A crown of snakes and weasel skinsIs borne upon his head;Atop a tuft of feathers servesTo bind them in their place,And serpent heads and weasel clawsHang round his neck and face.His naked shoulders and his breastAre stain’d a blood-red hue,And grim and blood-red is the maskHis fiery eyes look through.The sacred weed is in his hand,{20}That Okee’s favor wins,Whose grateful odor hath the powerTo expiate all sins;He hurls it forth with sinewy armInto the hottest flame,And thrice aloud in solemn toneInvokes great Okee’s name.At once they leap and form a ring,With shout and hideous yell,And round the flames they whirl and scream,Like a thousand fiends of hell.With strange contortions, flashing eyes,And long and flying hair,Around and round, for six long hours,{21}They battle with the air.And then again through every hallThe feast and song renew,And all day long and all the nightTheir festive mirth pursue.

The third day of the festivalNow drawing to its close,Promised the weary revellersCessation and repose.Nemattanow with joyful eyesBeheld that sun go down,Whose setting hour would give to himEarth’s richest, fairest crown.But though the time had joyous pass’dSince first the feast began,One circumstance there was, that stillDisturb’d old Powhatan.His favorite chief, Pamunky’s king,Though call’d with special careTo grace these glad rejoicing days,Had never once been there.Why he came not, no one could tell;A messenger each day,Had been despatch’d to learn the causeWhich kept that chief away;The first reported he had leftWith fifty of his clan,At dawning of the first feast-day,For the halls of Powhatan;And those who follow’d, day by day,No other news could bring,And great the marvel was, at thisStrange absence of the king.

The sun is low, and lodge and treeLong shadows now impart,But a sadder, deeper shadow fellOn Metoka’s young heart;For now the dreaded hour had comeWhen she abroad must rove,Away from childhood’s happy home,With the man she could not love.She took her sister by the handTo bid a sad farewell,And these the soft and tender wordsFrom her trembling lips that fell.

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