Part 4

Where rests Nemattanow the while? Is sleep to him as kind? And has it calm’d the passion-flame, That preys upon his mind? On his deer-skin soft, full six miles off, He has pillow’d his restless brain, And has turn’d himself from side to side, And tried to sleep in vain; For over his deep and burning thoughts His will has no control; He only thinks of Metoka, Whose beauty has fired his soul. Hour after hour he watch’d the moon Steal over his cabin floor, And the more he look’d upon its light, He thought of her the more; And if his fancy stray’d abroad In the chase o’er plain and hill, Or wander’d by the moon-lit stream, Her image met him still. He rose and left his sleepless couch, And into the woods has gone; He crosses meadow, grove, and glen, And still he wanders on; And when on Metoka’s abode First glanced the morning beam, Nemattanow was in the bower Beside the fountain stream. And round that bower and through the grove He linger’d all day long, To catch a glimpse of Metoka, Or listen to her song; And when her form glanced on his sight, Or her voice through the air rung clear, It sent a sun-light to his heart, And a joy upon his ear. But oh, how soon that sun-light fled, How quick that thrill of joy was dead, When recollection came again And whirl’d the thought across his brain, That since he brought with anxious care His choicest presents to the fair, Four suns had risen and four had set, But his gifts were not accepted yet!

XVII.

’Twas now the early twilight hour, That kindly comes with soothing power To calm the day’s tumultuous strife, And smooth the stormy waves of life. Nemattanow, with thoughtful eye Fix’d on the changeful evening sky, Lean’d him against an aged tree, Whose top for many a century Had bathed in the earliest beams of day And felt the sun’s last setting ray. Out on a gentle hill-side stood This aged monarch of the wood, Whence Powhatan’s gray lodge was seen, His fields, and groves, and valleys green; And the younger trees on the sloping brow Around this old trunk seem’d to bow, As if it had a right to be The ruler of their destiny. The monarch loved this relic old Of other days; perhaps the hold It had upon his heart arose From the charm similitude bestows, For the scenes of life around it thrown Seem’d but the shadowing of his own.

XVIII.

Now walking his accustom’d round At closing of the day, Old Powhatan the hill-side clomb, And look’d toward Paspahey, Where the English band had marr’d his groves And made his forest bow, And bitter was the curse he breathed, And dark his frowning brow. And here beside his old loved tree Reclined Nemattanow, Whose sadden’d eye and heaving breast Betray’d his secret wo. ‘Let not the warrior’s eye grow sad,’ The monarch gravely said, ‘Because his gifts are not approved ‘By a young light-hearted maid. ‘It is not meet that Powhatan ‘Should bid his daughter love ‘The warrior, or receive his gifts, ‘Unless her heart approve. ‘But let the warrior bring to me ‘The scalp of brave Sir John, ‘And Metoka shall be his bride, ‘And he the monarch’s son.’

XIX.

New fire lit up the glowing eyes Of sad Nemattanow; He smote his war-club on the ground, And firmly grasp’d his bow; And tomahawk and scalping-knife He buckled to his side, Gave one fierce look toward Paspahey, And down the valley hied.

END OF CANTO THIRD.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

The moon look’d down with loving light On river, grove, and hill, And Jamestown slept in quietness, Her homes were closed and still; The evening prayer from pious lips Had been address’d to heaven, And for relief from famine’s power Had many thanks been given; And while his people were at rest Sir John was out alone, And walking by the river bank, Where the moon-lit waters shone, To see his vessel well secured Against the chafing wave. Fear not for him; Sir John was arm’d-- And more, Sir John was brave. But as he turn’d him from the shore, His homeward route to trace, An arrow swift as light flew past-- So near, it fann’d his face; And quick upon his pathway rush’d An Indian, stout and tall. Sir John his faithful carbine drew, Well-charged with shot and ball; But though a squirrel he could bring From the highest forest bough, And though he took deliberate aim, His carbine fail’d him now. On came the savage, dark and fierce, Fire beaming from his eye, Leaping like tiger on his prey, His war-club raised on high; But when within ten feet he came, He made a sudden stand, For now Sir John’s bright sword was out, And flashing in his hand; And firm he stood and sternly look’d Upon his savage foe, In readiness, at every point, To give him blow for blow. A moment’s pause, and then again The Indian forward sprang, And now against his falling club Sir John’s keen broadsword rang; And thrice the clash of club and sword Echo’d the woods around, And then the weapon of Sir John Fell broken to the ground. At once he rush’d with desperate power And grappled with his foe, And, face to face, he saw and knew ’ Twas fierce Nemattanow. More deadly grew the conflict then; It was no feeble strife, When two such warriors, hand to hand, Were struggling, life for life. The hatchet of Nemattanow Bore a well-sharpen’d blade, And now to draw it from his belt His hand was on it laid; But quick the strong arm of Sir John Clasp’d the stout Indian round, And with a mighty effort brought His foeman to the ground. And as they fell, Nemattanow Clutch’d fast his flowing hair, And twisted it about his hand, As if he would prepare To cut away his living scalp Before he took his life; And now with vigorous gripe he seized His deadly scalping-knife. Again Sir John with iron nerve Summon’d his utmost strength; Their grapple, from the river side, Was scarcely twice his length; The grassy bank was smooth and steep, And dark and deep the flood-- A moment more, that scalping-knife Would surely drink his blood-- With wiry spring and giant power A sudden whirl he gave, And over and over, down they roll’d, And plunged beneath the wave.{17}

II.

Now stealing through the forest trees The ruddy morning broke, And, pouring in its dewy light, The slumbering monarch woke. He rose, and in his morning walk, To the sloping hill he hied, And there again by his old loved tree Nemattanow he spied. Weary and worn the warrior seem’d, His temple show’d a wound, And dripping water from his hair Was moistening the ground. No quiver now was at his back, Nor war-club by his side; Nor battle-axe nor scalping-knife His enemies defied. But though all weaponless he stood, His look was bold and free, And proud his bearing was, like one High flush’d with victory.

III.

‘And hast thou met,’ said Powhatan, ‘The foeman of our race? ‘Methinks the joy of triumph now ‘Is beaming from thy face. ‘But wherefore art thou weaponless, ‘And wounded, worn, and weak? ‘And where’s the scalp of the mighty chief, ‘Thou wentest forth to seek?’

IV.

‘I met that chief, and proved him well,’ Nemattanow replied, ‘And I left him down three fathoms deep ‘Beneath the sluggish tide. ‘Our people now through all our groves ‘Their accustom’d walks may take, ‘Nor start and cry, “There comes Sir John!” ‘If a twig but chance to break. ‘Our fight was bloody, long, and fierce; ‘The moon alone look’d on, ‘And none but the river-god can tell ‘Where sleeps the brave Sir John.’

V.

‘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.

X.

‘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.

XV.

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.

CANTO FIFTH.

I.

December’s sun is pale and low, Chilly and raw the north winds blow, Dark threatening clouds are floating by, And Jamestown’s sons with sadden’d eye Look out upon the dreary wild Of woods and waters, where exiled, And distant far from friends and home, They see the storms of winter come. One half their number they had lost, Since on this wild and desert coast They first set foot; and ere the spring Fresh fruits and flowers again would bring, They felt that others too must fall: For though their number was but small, Their store of food was smaller still; And oft this thought a deadly chill Sent to each heart: they saw the hour Was coming soon, when famine’s power Must sweep them off, as leaves are cast On the cold earth by autumn’s blast. But mid this gloom and prospect dread, That o’er all hearts a sadness shed, No matter by what foe assail’d, Sir John’s brave spirit never quail’d. Early and late he knew no rest; He nursed the sick, sooth’d the distress’d, Cheer’d the despairing, and anon, With gun in hand, away has gone To seek the wild duck on the wave, Or game within the darksome wood, The famish’d colonists to save, And spread their common board with food.

II.