IX.
In the midst of that shouting and joyous uproar
A 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 wore
Was 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.’