XVIII.
Now walking his accustom’d round
At closing of the day,
Old Powhatan the hill-side clomb,
And look’d toward Paspahey,
Where the English band had marr’d his groves
And made his forest bow,
And bitter was the curse he breathed,
And dark his frowning brow.
And here beside his old loved tree
Reclined Nemattanow,
Whose sadden’d eye and heaving breast
Betray’d his secret wo.
‘Let not the warrior’s eye grow sad,’
The monarch gravely said,
‘Because his gifts are not approved
‘By a young light-hearted maid.
‘It is not meet that Powhatan
‘Should bid his daughter love
‘The warrior, or receive his gifts,
‘Unless her heart approve.
‘But let the warrior bring to me
‘The scalp of brave Sir John,
‘And Metoka shall be his bride,
‘And he the monarch’s son.’