VI.
Sir John in friendly accents spoke,
And ask’d their king to see;
They pointed to a shelter’d lodge
Beneath a giant tree;
And when away where the old oak grew
They moved with haughty strides,
Sir John and his little band march’d up
And follow’d their grim guides.
And here a village rose in sight,
Where the woods look’d dark and wild,
But silence reign’d in every lodge,
Nor saw they man or child.
Then spoke Sir John to his guides again,
And ask’d their chief to see.
They answer’d not, but away to the woods
They pointed silently;
And into the woods with quicken’d step
They silently withdrew,
And in their village left Sir John
Alone with his vessel’s crew.
But soon from the forest came again
Dark warriors with their bows,
And painted men on every side
From brake and bush arose;
And a warlike throng came up the path,
That led from the river shore,
And, moving quick, with hideous shouts,
Their sacred Okee bore—
Great Okee, whose mysterious power
Is in the earth and air,
In fire and flood and stormy winds,
And worketh every where.
Great Okee, dress’d in painted robes,
And shining chains and beads,
Who in the silent night performs
Unutterable deeds,
And safely through the darkest hour
His faithful people leads—
Great Okee cometh in the van
With war-plume on his head;
His brow is striped with black and white,
His cheeks are gory red;
And to the pale mysterious throng
They now are pressing near,
But Okee cometh in the van,
Why should his people fear?
A sudden war-whoop, wild and fierce,
Rings upward to the sky,
And a hundred warriors draw their bows,
And a hundred arrows fly.
But answering muskets quick give back
To the woods a roaring sound;
Each bowman flies, and Okee falls
Alone upon the ground.
Sir John the painted idol took,{[15]}
And bore it to the shore;
And soon a suppliant priest came down
Its ransom to implore.
VII.
The barge is on the tide again,
And rapidly it flies,
For long its coming has been watch’d
By anxious waiting eyes;
And now those eyes are brightening,
And hearts are beating light,
And hope’s dim fires are lit anew,
For plenty greets their sight.
VIII.
The monarch was feasting in royal state,
And many brave chiefs at the banquet sate:
His hunters had brought in their choicest store,
His fishers came loaded from Chesapeake’s shore;
His menials hasten a feast to prepare
From the mingled spoils of earth, ocean, and air,
And a merry hum circled round the board,
That so simply was spread and so richly was stored.
Fair Metoka sat at the monarch’s right hand,
The waiters stood watchful to do his command,{[16]}
And while on his left his younger child,
The gay Matachanna, look’d on him and smiled,
And amid the guests, that graced his hall,
His own valiant son was the pride of all,
The patriarch monarch gave thanks from his heart,
That the Spirit such blessings to him did impart.
But a messenger comes from the spying scout,
Which Powhatan’s caution kept constantly out,
To watch every movement the pale-faces made,
And see that his people went not there to trade.
‘What tidings from Jamestown?’ the monarch inquires;
‘Do the pale-faces thrive by their council-fires?
‘Are their hearts as light as the wild-bird’s song?
‘Do they walk like a people who feel they are strong?
‘Do our tribes still obey our imperial command?’
‘Or has food been bestow’d by a traitor’s hand?’
—‘The tree of the pale-face is sapless and dried,’
The messenger spy to the monarch replied;
‘Its branches are wither’d, and sear’d is its leaf,
‘And the reign of the pale-face is harmless and brief.
‘No hand brings them food, their own fountain is dry;
‘A blight is upon them, they fade and they die,
‘And soon Powhatan will be rid of his foe,
‘Without wielding the war-club or drawing the bow.’
When the tale of the colonists’ woes was done,
A smile sat on every brow save one:
A murmur of joy spread the hall throughout,
The warriors gave a triumphant shout;
But while other hearts with delight beat high,
Fair Metoka’s bosom still heaved with a sigh.
IX.
In the midst of that shouting and joyous uproar
A Kecoughtan warrior rush’d in at the door;
His visage was haggard, and flying his hair,
From his restless eye shot a fiery glare,
His breathing was quick, and his mantle was torn,
His tough skin moccasins muddy and worn,
And the only weapon he wielded or wore
Was a war-club stout, which he dash’d on the floor.
Every sound in that hall in a moment was hush’d,
And the semblance of joy from each visage was brush’d.
Not a word nor a whisper escaped from the crowd,
Till Powhatan order’d that warrior aloud,
His message, whate’er it might be, to make known,
And declare why he came in such haste and alone.
‘I come,’ said the warrior, ‘from Kecoughtan’s king,
‘And appalling and sad are the tidings I bring:
‘A cloud full of blackness is over us spread,
‘And the thick bolts of heaven leap awful and red;
‘Our god is dishonor’d, and soon will his ire
‘Sweep the realm of the monarch with thunder and fire,
‘Unless the foul insult be wash’d from the land
‘By the hateful blood of the pale-face band.
‘Sir John and his warriors have been to our shore,
‘And their coming we long shall have cause to deplore;
‘Our children no longer can quietly sleep,
‘The wounds of our people are bloody and deep;
‘With smoke and with fire, and a thundering sound,
‘Great Okee was hurl’d like a chief to the ground,
‘And dragg’d like a captive, and borne from the plain,
‘And barter’d and sold like a deer that is slain.’
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.