VI.
Then slowly look’d the old chief round;
In his eye a strange light shone,
And slowly these brief words he spoke
In 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 hue
Were hanging on the wall;
The monarch took from its resting-place
The richest one of all;
And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm,
He bade him speed his flight,
And bear it to the pale-face chiefs
Ere 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 flew
Away through the distant wood;
But the monarch still among his chiefs
Like 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 hall
A 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 step
And left the silent hall.