V.
‘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.