IV.
Then spoke Pamunky’s king, and said,
With half triumphant mein,
‘True, strongly grows the pale-face tree,
‘Its boughs are fresh and green;
‘But I have found a secret fire,
‘That will at my bidding go,
‘And, creeping through the pale-face tree,
‘Lay its tall branches low.
‘My priest a subtle poison keeps,
‘From deadly weeds distill’d;
‘A single drop, where the red-deer feeds,
‘A red-deer oft has kill’d.
‘Rich venison and wild fowls, imbued
‘With this dark drug, have gone
‘To feed the famish’d pale-face foe,
‘A present to Sir John.
‘And ere to-morrow’s noonday hour
‘They’ll droop, and fade, and die,
‘And strew the ground, like autumn leaves
‘When the storm-god passes by.
‘The breeze all day across the land
‘Shall bear their dying groans,
‘And the river-god shall many a year
‘Behold their whitening bones.’
V.
He paused and look’d at Powhatan
For some approving word;
But a bitter sigh from Metoka
Was the only sound he heard.
‘If it is done, then be it so,’
The monarch said, at last;
‘Though rather would I see them fall
‘By the spirit’s lightning blast;
‘Or that our arms in open fight
‘Might hurl the deadly blow,
‘And show them Powhatan has power
‘To conquer any foe.
‘But if the deed is done, ’tis well—
‘The agent or the hour
‘We will not question, if it serve
‘To crush their growing power.
‘Come, let us to the lodge retire;
‘Thou’lt rest with us to-night:
‘The clouds rise dark; the lightning fires
‘Flash with a fiercer light.’
Now sitting in the lodge, they talk
Of their mighty pale-face foe:
Pamunky broods with secret joy
Upon the impending blow;
But Powhatan walks up and down
With sadness in his eye;
For though it was his settled will
The pale-face foe should die,
Yet still he feels ’ twould better suit
His prowess and his pride,
If warriors’ arms in the battle-field
The deadly strife had tried.
VI.
And now all silent in the lodge,
The chiefs are both at rest;
But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughts
Fair Metoka oppress’d.
She loved her sire, she loved his land:
She loved them as her life—
What feeling in her heart is now
With that pure love at strife?
’ Tis pity, pleading for the lives
Of those who soon must fall—
It pleadeth with an angel’s voice,
And loud as a trumpet-call.
Mayhap another feeling too
Its secret influence wrought
In her pure heart; but if ’ twere so,
She understood it not—
But true it was, that since Sir John
First pass’d before her sight,
Something was twining round her heart;
She felt it day and night.
Her heart is sad, her bosom bleeds
For the cruel fate of those,
In whom she knows no crime or fault,
Nor can she deem them foes.
Alone and restless she looks out
Upon the fearful night;
The warring elements are there,
The lightning fires gleam bright;
She hears the muttering thunders growl
Along the distant hills,
And many a pause the thunders make
The wolves’ wild howling fills.
The awful clouds roll high and dark,
The winds have a roaring, sound,
The branches from stout trees are torn
And hurl’d upon the ground;
And now the rain in torrents falls—
How her feeble limbs do shake!
Such gloom without, such grief within,
Her young heart sure must break.
VII.
But Jamestown’s death-devoted sons
In conscious safety rest;
The natives, months before, had ceased
The pale-face to molest;
Pamunky’s rich and generous gift
Their confidence increased,
And on the morrow all would share
In joyfulness their feast.
’ Tis now the darkest midnight hour,
But yet Sir John sleeps not—
He listeth to the storm without;
The rain beats down like shot
Against the wall and on the roof;
The wind is strong and high,
And bellowing thunders burst and roll
Athwart the troubled sky.
A moment’s pause—what sound is that?
A light tap at the door—
Can mortal be abroad to-night?
That feeble tap once more—
He opes the door; his dim light falls
Upon a slender form—
The monarch’s daughter standeth there,
Like a spirit of the storm!
Through dark wild woods, in that fearful night,
She had peril’d life and limb,
And suffer’d all but death to bring
Safety and life to him.
And now, her object gain’d, she turns
In haste her home to seek—
Sir John such strong emotion feels,
At first he scarce can speak:
But soon he urged her, while the storm
Was raging, to remain;
But she with earnestness replied,
‘I must not heed the rain.’
‘But the night is dark, the way is rough,
‘Till morning you must stay—’
With tears she said, ‘I must return
‘Before the break of day.’
‘Then I will go with a file of men
‘To guard you on your way—’
But still her eyes with tears were fill’d,
And still she answer’d nay—
‘Through woods and rain to my father’s lodge
‘I must return alone,
‘And never must my father know
‘The errand I have done.’
And away she flew from the cottage door,
To the forest wild again:
Sir John upon the darkness look’d,
And listen’d to the rain;
And still he look’d where the pathway lay
Across the distant field,
Until the lightning’s sudden flash
Her flying form reveal’d;
And still with sad and anxious thought
And moveless eyes he stood,
Till he saw her by another flash
Enter the midnight wood.{[24]}
VIII.
Day came and went—another pass’d—
And now a week has gone—
The dark-brow’d chiefs are puzzled much,
That the pale-face men live on.
Early and late had Powhatan
Been out on the calm hill-side,
But on the air no death-wail came
At morn or eventide:
And when his spies, returning home
From Jamestown day by day,
Told him the pale-face tree was green,
Nor blight upon it lay,
The doubting monarch shook his head,
And on his daughter cast
A look more chilling to her heart
Than winter’s dreary blast.
But not a word the monarch spoke;
His thought he never told;
Though she could often in his eye
That dreadful glance behold.
And though in all his troubled hours
To give him peace she strove,
And though she tried all tender ways
To touch his heart with love;
And though sometimes he smiled on her,
As once he used to smile,
Yet in his eye that cheerless look
Was lurking all the while;
And Metoka for many a day
His lost love did deplore,
And felt that her sweet peace of mind
Was gone forevermore.
Lonely and sad one day she sat
In her bower beside the spring,
When coming from the woods she saw
Approach Pamunky’s king.
He was her uncle, and though rough
To others he might prove,
To Metoka he nought had shown
But tenderness and love.
Then with a sad confiding look
She towards Pamunky ran,
Who told her he had come to bring
Great news to Powhatan;
And straightway to the council-hall
He led her by the hand,
Where chiefs and warriors eagerly
Around the monarch stand,
In deep debate, devising means
To crush the pale-face race;
But all, when came Pamunky’s king,
Stood back to give him place.