The monarch sitteth on his throne,
In his dignity array’d;
Mysterious power is in his eye,
That maketh man afraid;
The women of his court stand up
With awe behind the throne,
But his daughters in their beauty sit
On either hand alone;
While all around the spacious hall
Long rows of warriors stand,
With nodding war-plume on each head,
And each with weapon in his hand;
And scalps and trophies line the walls,
That fifty wars supplied,
And richest robes and shining belts
Appear on every side.
And all is placed in fit array
To take the captive’s eye,
When he should come within the hall
To be condemn’d and die—
For ’twas not meet to take the life
Of so great and strange a man,
Till he had seen the greatness too
Of great King Powhatan.
XVI.
Now through the festal crowds abroad
Heralds aloud make known,
That soon the great Sir John must die,
Before the monarch’s throne.
Hush’d is the song and ceased the dance,
And darkening throngs draw near,
In awful silence round the hall,
And bend a listening ear,
To catch the floating sounds that come,
Perchance the fatal blow,
Perchance the death-song of Sir John,
Or his dying shriek of wo.
A private door to that great hall
Is open’d slow and wide,
And a guard of forty men march in
With looks of lofty pride,
For in their midst that captive walks
With tightly pinion’d arm,
Whose very name had power to shake
The boldest with alarm.
The captive’s step is firm and free,
His bearing grave and high,
And calm and quiet dignity
Is beaming from his eye.
One universal shout arose
When first Sir John appear’d,
And all the gathering throng without
In answer loudly cheer’d.
And then the monarch waved his hand,
And all was still again;
And round the hall the prisoner march’d,
Led by the warrior train;
And thrice they went the circuit round,
That all might see the face
That bore such pale and spirit marks
Of a strange and mighty race.
XVII.
In the centre of the hall is placed
A square and massive stone,
And beds of twigs and forest leaves
Are thickly round it strown;
And there a heavy war-club stands,
With knots all cover’d o’er;
It bears the marks of many wars,
Hard, smooth, and stain’d with gore.
It was the monarch’s favorite club,
For times of peril kept,
’Twas near him when upon the throne,
And near him when he slept.
No other hands had ever dared
That ponderous club to wield,
And never could a foe escape
When that club swept the field.
Now slowly to this fatal spot
They lead Sir John with care,
And bind his feet about with withes,
And lay him prostrate there;
And look and listen eagerly
For him to groan or weep;
But he lays his head down tranquilly,
As a child that goes to sleep.
The monarch with a stately step
Descendeth from the throne,
And all give back before the light,
From his fiery eye that shone.
He raiseth that huge war-club high;
The warriors hold their breath,
And look to see that mighty arm
Hurl down the blow of death—
A sudden shriek bursts through the air,
A wild and piercing cry,
And swift as light a form is seen
Across the hall to fly.
The startled monarch stays his hand,
For now, beneath his blow,
He sees his lovely Metoka
By the captive kneeling low.
Her gentle arm is round his head,
Her tearful eyes upturn’d,
And there the pure and hallow’d light
Of angel mercy burn’d.
Compassion lit its gentle fires{[22]}
In the breast of Powhatan;
The warrior to the father yields,
The monarch to the man.
Slowly his war-club sinks to earth,
And slowly from his eye
Recedes the fierce, vindictive fire,
That burn’d before so high.
His nerves relax—he looks around
Upon his warrior men—
Perchance their unsubdued revenge
His soul might fire again—
But no; the soft contagion spreads,
And all have felt its power,
And hearts are touch’d and passions hush’d,
For mercy ruled the hour.
XVIII.
The monarch gently raised his child,
And brush’d her tears away;
And call’d Pamunky to his side,
And bade without delay
To free the captive from his bonds,
And show him honors due,
And lead him to the festive hall
Their banquet to renew.
XIX.
The day is past, and past the night,
And now again the morning light,
With golden pinions all unfurl’d,
Comes forth to wake a sleeping world;
And brave Sir John, with footsteps free,
And a trusty guard of warriors three,
Through the deep woods is on his way
To greet his friends at Paspahey.
END OF CANTO FOURTH.