XI.
But hark! a shout comes on the air,
A war-cry loud and shrill;
It seems a shout of victory—
Again, and louder still.
Old Powhatan rush’d from the hall
With war-club in his hand,
And a hundred warriors seize their arms,
And round the old chief stand,
And listen to that coming shout,
That now rings loud and clear;
And soon from out the darkling grove
A warrior train appear.
‘Pamunky’s king!’ cried Powhatan,
‘’Tis Opechancanough;
‘I see his raven-plume on high,
‘His giant form below.
‘Now let a cry of welcome rise
‘Till hill and forest ring,
‘For a truer chief no tribe can boast,
‘Than brave Pamunky’s king.’
At once with one united voice
Their answering shout rose high,
And loud and long the echo swell’d,
Like an army’s battle-cry.
Pamunky led his warriors up,
Form’d in a hollow square,
With bowstrings drawn and arrows notch’d,
All pointing in with care,
To guard a prisoner, who with arms
Tight-pinion’d might be seen
Advancing with a stately step,
And calm and noble mein.
On either side three warriors stout
Held fast upon each arm,
With weapons ready for the death
Upon the least alarm.
‘Why come so late,’ said Powhatan,
‘Our festive rites to share?
‘And what brave captive hast thou brought
‘Amid thy warriors there?’