‘The daring deed was bravely done,’
The joyful chief replied;
‘For this, henceforth thou art my son,
‘And Metoka thy bride.
‘Three days a merry festival
‘Thy triumph shall proclaim,
‘And every grove through all our tribes
‘Shall ring aloud thy name;
‘And when these joyous days are past,
‘Fair Metoka shall go,
‘In all our choicest gifts array’d,
‘To bless Nemattanow.’
VI.
Now through the halls of Powhatan
The voice of gladness wakes,
And ringing out from hill to hill
The shout of triumph breaks.
Stout warriors come with wampum belts
And robes of blue and red,
And many a chief in rich attire,
With war-plume on his head;
And men and maidens in their joy
The hall of council throng,
And every lodge and every grove
Echoes with dance and song.
And rich and plenteous is the feast
On every board spread out;
Joy sparkles from a thousand eyes,
High peals the merry shout;
And loud and often in their glee
They bless Nemattanow,
Whose powerful arm had overcome
Their strange and mighty foe.
VII.
And now, to appease great Okee’s ire,
The priests with solemn care
Enter the sacred temple halls,
And mystic rites prepare—
Those sacred halls where priests perform
Their fearful mystery,
Places by far too holy deem’d
For other eyes to see—
Temples that shield from vulgar sight{[18]}
A thousand holy things,
Their idols, tombs, and images
Of great and ancient kings.
Out on a grassy, open spot,
Are fagots piled on high,
And leaping flame and rolling smoke
Are towering to the sky;
And there, to wait the priest’s return,
Hundreds are gather’d round,
To join the mystic revelry,
And dance on holy ground—
When lo! the solemn man comes forth{[19]}
With slow and measured tread;
A crown of snakes and weasel skins
Is borne upon his head;
Atop a tuft of feathers serves
To bind them in their place,
And serpent heads and weasel claws
Hang round his neck and face.
His naked shoulders and his breast
Are stain’d a blood-red hue,
And grim and blood-red is the mask
His fiery eyes look through.
The sacred weed is in his hand,{[20]}
That Okee’s favor wins,
Whose grateful odor hath the power
To expiate all sins;
He hurls it forth with sinewy arm
Into the hottest flame,
And thrice aloud in solemn tone
Invokes great Okee’s name.
At once they leap and form a ring,
With shout and hideous yell,
And round the flames they whirl and scream,
Like a thousand fiends of hell.
With strange contortions, flashing eyes,
And long and flying hair,
Around and round, for six long hours,{[21]}
They battle with the air.
And then again through every hall
The feast and song renew,
And all day long and all the night
Their festive mirth pursue.
VIII.
The third day of the festival
Now drawing to its close,
Promised the weary revellers
Cessation and repose.
Nemattanow with joyful eyes
Beheld that sun go down,
Whose setting hour would give to him
Earth’s richest, fairest crown.
But though the time had joyous pass’d
Since first the feast began,
One circumstance there was, that still
Disturb’d old Powhatan.
His favorite chief, Pamunky’s king,
Though call’d with special care
To grace these glad rejoicing days,
Had never once been there.
Why he came not, no one could tell;
A messenger each day,
Had been despatch’d to learn the cause
Which kept that chief away;
The first reported he had left
With fifty of his clan,
At dawning of the first feast-day,
For the halls of Powhatan;
And those who follow’d, day by day,
No other news could bring,
And great the marvel was, at this
Strange absence of the king.
IX.
The sun is low, and lodge and tree
Long shadows now impart,
But a sadder, deeper shadow fell
On Metoka’s young heart;
For now the dreaded hour had come
When she abroad must rove,
Away from childhood’s happy home,
With the man she could not love.
She took her sister by the hand
To bid a sad farewell,
And these the soft and tender words
From her trembling lips that fell.