The aged monarch bow’d his head
In bitterness of wo;
In all his long eventful life
This was the deadliest blow.
In manhood’s prime he had look’d on
And seen his kindred die,
Without one muscle quivering,
Without one tear or sigh.
Two generations he had seen
Swept from his wide domain;
And war, and peace, and lapse of years,
Had battled him in vain;
But when this last, this brightest hope
Was torn from him apart,
It shook the strength of his iron frame,
And pierced him to the heart.
The eyes of his fierce warriors glow’d
And flash’d with living fire;
And leave to fly and leave to fight
Is all they now require.
Pamunky rises in his might,
His voice is loud and high—
‘This instant let us seek the foe,
‘And cut him down or die.’
Like an angry tiger, Nantaquas
Sends fiery glances round,
And clutching his huge war-club, growls,
And fiercely beats the ground;
And a hundred warriors seize their arms
And foam like a raging flood;
And a hundred voices cry with thirst
For a taste of English blood.
But while they raged with furious heat,
And long’d for the coming fight,
A swiftly flying messenger
From the forest came in sight.
’Twas faithful Rawhunt—six long days
At Jamestown he had been,
A captive in the picket fort—
How came he free again?
He rushes to the council-hall
And stands before the king,
And listening warriors bend to hear
What tidings he may bring.
V.
‘O, sire,’ the faithful servant said,
‘Would that the pale-face foe
‘Had sent his lightning through the heart
‘Of Rawhunt long ago;
‘Then had I never lived to see
‘The sorrow and distress
‘Of that sweet child, whose life has been
‘All love and tenderness.
‘They led her to the inner fort—
‘I saw her as she pass’d;
‘Her head was bent like a dying flower,
‘And her tears were falling fast.
‘And then their council bade me bear
‘This message to my king,
‘And ere the setting sun goes down
‘His answer back to bring.
‘The pale-face now, of Powhatan,
‘Demands that war shall cease,
‘And holds his daughter as a pledge
‘That he will live at peace;
‘But if another white man falls,
‘Or a drop of blood is shed,
‘That instant shall the monarch’s child
‘Sleep with the sleeping dead.
‘Twelve circling moons a captive bound
‘Must Metoka remain,
‘And if good faith be kept till then,
‘She shall be free again.
‘And more than this, great Powhatan
‘His royal word must give
‘To keep the truce, if he would have
‘His daughter longer live;
‘And I must fly with the monarch’s pledge,
‘As swift as the eagle flies,
‘For if the pledge come not to-night,
‘This night his daughter dies.’
He ceased, and silence fill’d the hall,
Like midnight deep and still;
All eyes were bent on Powhatan,
Waiting the monarch’s will.
VI.
Then slowly look’d the old chief round;
In his eye a strange light shone,
And slowly these brief words he spoke
In a strange and solemn tone.
‘The Spirit wills it—we must yield—
‘For vain the power of man
‘To strive against the Spirit’s power:
‘Gladly would Powhatan,
‘Alone, unaided, meet the foe,
‘And all his host defy—
‘But the Spirit wills it—we must yield—
‘That daughter must not die.’
Fair wampum-belts of shining hue
Were hanging on the wall;
The monarch took from its resting-place
The richest one of all;
And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm,
He bade him speed his flight,
And bear it to the pale-face chiefs
Ere fall the shades of night;
And tell them, ‘Powhatan accepts
‘The proffer they have made:
‘If they are faithful to the truce,
‘’Twill be by him obey’d.’
Swiftly the faithful Rawhunt flew
Away through the distant wood;
But the monarch still among his chiefs
Like a solemn statue stood.
At last, with sadden’d look and tone,
The chiefs he thus address’d:
‘The old tree cannot always last;
‘The monarch needeth rest.
‘While twelve fair moons in quietness
‘Shall run their circling round,
‘No war-whoop will awake the woods,
‘No blood will stain the ground.
‘Till then, to a solitary lodge
‘Will Powhatan depart,
‘And rest his head from weary cares,
‘And rest his weary heart.
‘Meantime let brave Pamunky’s king
‘Our sovereign sceptre sway,
‘And him, instead of Powhatan,
‘Let all the tribes obey.’
He said—and slowly round the hall
A sober look he cast;
A lingering, doubting, troubled look,
As though it were the last;
And taking up his bow and club,
That lean’d against the wall,
The monarch turn’d with stately step
And left the silent hall.
VII.
Far up the Chickahominy
The banks are green and fair,
And through the groves of Orapakes
There breathes a balmy air;
And there beneath tall shady trees
A quiet lodge is found;
Bright birds are darting through the boughs
And hopping on the ground;
Refreshing waters from the hills
Through groves and valleys glide;
And gentle deer come down to drink
By the cool river-side;
And there among the stout old trees,
From toil and conflict free,
The aged monarch moves about,
And muses silently.
He sighs to think of his distant child
At night on his bed of fur:
And if he sleep in the lonely hours,
’Tis but to dream of her.
And he thinks of her in his sunny walks,
With the sportive deer about,
And he thinks of her by the bending brook
Where glides the golden trout.
VIII.
Long time had Opechancanough
A burning hatred borne
Against the pale-face, who had caused
His native land to mourn.
Sir John had led him by the hair,{[27]}
With pistol at his breast;
The rankling thought was a raging fire,
That never let him rest.
And the insult offer’d to his god
He never could forget,
Till the sun of this whole hated race
In night and blood should set.
Sage Powhatan knew well the power
The English arms possess’d,
And made his warriors keep aloof,
And their rash fire repress’d.
But now Pamunky is the chief,
Whom all the tribes obey,
And vengeance its hot strife for blood
No longer will delay.
He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge,
And talks of friendship’s chain,
And tells how strong and bright it is,
And long shall so remain;
And all unarm’d his warriors roam
The colonists among,
And words of peace and kindness flow
From every Indian tongue.
But in his deep and gloomy wilds,
Where white man never came,
He breathed into his warriors’ hearts
His bosom’s burning flame.
And round and round, from tribe to tribe,
Through many a summer’s night,
He whisper’d dark words in their ears
Beneath the dim starlight:
And a thousand times those mutter’d words
In his low breath were said,
And a thousand hearts their secret kept,
As voiceless as the dead.
He bade them think of Powhatan,
An exile sad and lone;
And the pleasant light of that lovely star
That once among them shone;
He bade them think of Okee’s wrongs
Received from the pale-face crew;
And the deadly shade that the pale-face tree
Far over the land now threw.
The secret fire is kindling well;
A thousand hearts are strong,
And a thousand eager warriors wait
To avenge their country’s wrong.