X.
The messenger ceased, his voice was still;
But from that hall a war-cry shrill
Roll’d over river, grove, and hill,
So loud, so sharp, so piercing clear,
For miles around the startled deer
Raised high their heads and snuff’d the breeze,
Gazed through the distant opening trees,
And arch’d their necks, and raised their feet,
Then clear’d the ground with step so fleet,
That soon the dark and silent glen
Secured them from pursuit of men.
Grim warriors smote their breasts, and cried,
‘Vengeance shall humble pale-face pride;
‘Away, away, to Jamestown’s shore,
‘Our scalping-knives all thirst for gore.’
Stout Nantaquas with furious look
Aloft his knotted war-club shook;
His bosom panted for the strife
Of war-club, battle-axe, or knife.
Pamunky’s iron visage glow’d
With passion’s fire, as round he trode,
And cross’d the hall from side to side,
And shook it with his giant stride.
Raged and foam’d Nemattanow,
Rattled his quiver and strain’d his bow,
And vow’d no sleep his eyes should know,
Till he had tasted English blood,
And avenged the insult to his god.
But Powhatan sat like a rock,
That moves not mid the tempest shock;
And while he watch’d his people’s rage,
Which he alone had power to assuage,
Passions that his own visage wrought
Show’d equal fire, but more of thought.
Sternly the monarch look’d around,
And waved his hand: hush’d was each sound;
The warriors bent a listening ear
Their sovereign’s high behest to hear,
While with rebuke and counsel bold
He soon their fiery mood controll’d.