VIII.
Long time had Opechancanough
A burning hatred borne
Against the pale-face, who had caused
His native land to mourn.
Sir John had led him by the hair,{[27]}
With pistol at his breast;
The rankling thought was a raging fire,
That never let him rest.
And the insult offer’d to his god
He never could forget,
Till the sun of this whole hated race
In night and blood should set.
Sage Powhatan knew well the power
The English arms possess’d,
And made his warriors keep aloof,
And their rash fire repress’d.
But now Pamunky is the chief,
Whom all the tribes obey,
And vengeance its hot strife for blood
No longer will delay.
He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge,
And talks of friendship’s chain,
And tells how strong and bright it is,
And long shall so remain;
And all unarm’d his warriors roam
The colonists among,
And words of peace and kindness flow
From every Indian tongue.
But in his deep and gloomy wilds,
Where white man never came,
He breathed into his warriors’ hearts
His bosom’s burning flame.
And round and round, from tribe to tribe,
Through many a summer’s night,
He whisper’d dark words in their ears
Beneath the dim starlight:
And a thousand times those mutter’d words
In his low breath were said,
And a thousand hearts their secret kept,
As voiceless as the dead.
He bade them think of Powhatan,
An exile sad and lone;
And the pleasant light of that lovely star
That once among them shone;
He bade them think of Okee’s wrongs
Received from the pale-face crew;
And the deadly shade that the pale-face tree
Far over the land now threw.
The secret fire is kindling well;
A thousand hearts are strong,
And a thousand eager warriors wait
To avenge their country’s wrong.