VIII.
Day came and went—another pass’d—
And now a week has gone—
The dark-brow’d chiefs are puzzled much,
That the pale-face men live on.
Early and late had Powhatan
Been out on the calm hill-side,
But on the air no death-wail came
At morn or eventide:
And when his spies, returning home
From Jamestown day by day,
Told him the pale-face tree was green,
Nor blight upon it lay,
The doubting monarch shook his head,
And on his daughter cast
A look more chilling to her heart
Than winter’s dreary blast.
But not a word the monarch spoke;
His thought he never told;
Though she could often in his eye
That dreadful glance behold.
And though in all his troubled hours
To give him peace she strove,
And though she tried all tender ways
To touch his heart with love;
And though sometimes he smiled on her,
As once he used to smile,
Yet in his eye that cheerless look
Was lurking all the while;
And Metoka for many a day
His lost love did deplore,
And felt that her sweet peace of mind
Was gone forevermore.
Lonely and sad one day she sat
In her bower beside the spring,
When coming from the woods she saw
Approach Pamunky’s king.
He was her uncle, and though rough
To others he might prove,
To Metoka he nought had shown
But tenderness and love.
Then with a sad confiding look
She towards Pamunky ran,
Who told her he had come to bring
Great news to Powhatan;
And straightway to the council-hall
He led her by the hand,
Where chiefs and warriors eagerly
Around the monarch stand,
In deep debate, devising means
To crush the pale-face race;
But all, when came Pamunky’s king,
Stood back to give him place.