XII.
Henceforth the course of war is changed—
In one devoted band
The desperate colonists march forth
In arms to scour the land;
And the flying savage, looking back
From the hill-top, often sees
The flames of his burning lodge dart up
Above the forest trees.
The blood of old and young alike
Is pour’d upon the plains,
And through the realm of Powhatan
Wide desolation reigns.
Like hunted deer through grove and glen
The bleeding victims die,
And villages by the river banks
In smoking ruins lie.
At last the broken, flying tribes
In many a rallying band,
Meet round the home of Powhatan
For one more desperate stand.
And here an oath each warrior swears,
To fall—if he must fall—
With face to the foe, and hand to his bow,
And his back to the council-hall.