‘O, Matachanna, must I go
‘From this loved spot away?
‘No more among these green old trees,
‘With thee, dear sister, play?
‘No more upon the hill-side run,
‘And chase the butterfly,
‘Or down the shady valley see
‘The nimble deer dart by?
‘A pleasant thing it is to see
‘The lovely light of day,
‘When gentle Matachanna is
‘Companion of my way!
‘But away alone with a cruel one,
‘My day will turn to night,
‘And never more will Metoka
‘Behold the pleasant light.
‘But when, dear sister, I am gone,
‘Still love our greenwood bowers,
‘And plant around our lovely spring
‘The pretty summer flowers.
‘And love our father fervently,
‘And bless him every day,
‘And sometimes gently speak to him
‘Of her that’s far away—’
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?’
XII.
‘True, I am late,’ Pamunky said,
‘But my lateness to atone,
‘I bring you here a captive bound,
‘The mighty chief, Sir John.’
A moment, struck with deep surprise,
Each warrior held his breath,
And a stillness reign’d through all the crowd,
Like that in the halls of death.
First Powhatan at the prisoner glanced,
Then at Nemattanow,
Who look’d as though he’d sink to earth
With wonder, shame, and wo.
And when the first surprise was o’er,
The gathering throngs drew round,
And a mighty swell of triumph rose,
That shook the very ground.
Warrior and chief, and old and young,
Pour’d their full voices out,
And never did woods give echo back
To such a ringing shout.
When silence was again restored
The old chief waved his hand,
And with imperial look and tone,
To all gave this command.
‘The evening shades begin to fall,
‘Let noise and revel cease;
‘Our three days’ feasting now requires
‘A night of rest and peace.
‘The captive to the inner hall
‘Convey with special care,
‘And forty of our bravest men,
‘Till morning, guard him there.
‘To-morrow let our feast again
‘With double rites be crown’d,
‘And a double song of victory
‘Through all our tribes resound;
‘Then solemn council shall decide
‘What fate shall be prepared
‘For this proud chief, that in our realm
‘Our sovereign power has dared.
‘And thou, Nemattanow, shalt be—’
Here turn’d the monarch round,
But lo! the fierce Nemattanow
Was nowhere to be found.
His name was shouted on the air
A thousand times in vain,
And runners flew this way and that,
O’er rugged hill and plain;
And hall and lodge were search’d throughout,
And grove and glen explored,
But all the search till night set in
No tidings could afford.
XIII.
Again the day is dawning,
And the revellers are out,
And their whooping and their cheering
Might be heard for miles about;
And the day is spent in feasting,
And ’tis joy and music all,
Save where the mighty monarch,
In his great council-hall,
In his royal robes is sitting,
And his war-chiefs round him wait,
To decide in solemn council
Their illustrious captive’s fate.
XIV.
Though many honor’d brave Sir John
For his spirit bold and high,
The solemn council now decide
That brave Sir John must die;
For this alone, they deem’d, would serve
To appease great Okee’s wrath;
And safety to the monarch’s realm
Required the strange chief’s death.
So great a foe and terrible
Their tribes had never known:
Hence ’twas decreed, that in his fall,
Great Powhatan alone
Was worthy to inflict the blow
This mighty chief to slay;
And all demanded that the deed
Be done without delay.