VI.
Now through the halls of Powhatan
The voice of gladness wakes,
And ringing out from hill to hill
The shout of triumph breaks.
Stout warriors come with wampum belts
And robes of blue and red,
And many a chief in rich attire,
With war-plume on his head;
And men and maidens in their joy
The hall of council throng,
And every lodge and every grove
Echoes with dance and song.
And rich and plenteous is the feast
On every board spread out;
Joy sparkles from a thousand eyes,
High peals the merry shout;
And loud and often in their glee
They bless Nemattanow,
Whose powerful arm had overcome
Their strange and mighty foe.