 | Powhatan |  |
CANTO FOURTH.
I.
The moon look'd down with loving lightOn 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,
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
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.
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.
Burk says that on one occasion Captain Smith, “whilst he walked unattended in the woods, was attacked by the king of Paspahey, a man of gigantic stature;” and Stith adds, that “the Indian, by mere dint of strength, forced him into the water with intent to drown him. Long they struggled, till the President (Smith) got such hold of his throat, that he almost strangled him.”
II.
Now stealing through the forest treesThe 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 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.
‘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 PowhatanThe 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,
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
“In every territory of a werowance is a temple and priest; two or three or more.
“Upon the top of certaine red sandy hills in the woods, there are three great houses filled with images of their kings, and devils, and tombs of their predecessors. Those houses are near sixty foot in length, built arbor-wise, after their building. This place they count so holy as that but the priests and kings dare come into them; nor the savages dare not go up the river in boats by it, but they solemnly cast some piece of copper, white beads, or pocones, into the river, for fear their Okee should be offended and revenged of them.”—
Smith's Virginia.A thousand holy things,
Their idols, tombs, and images
Of great and ancient kings.
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
“Their chief priest differed from the rest in his ornaments, but inferior priests could hardly be knowne from the common people, but that they had not so many holes in their ears to hang their jewells at. The ornaments of the chief priest were certaine attires for his head, made thus. They took a dozen or sixteen or more snakes' skins, and stuffed them with mosse, and of weazles and other vermines' skins a good many. All these they tie by their tails, so as all their tails meet on the top of their head like a great tassell. Round about this tassell is as it were a crowne of feathers; the skins hang round about his head, necke and shoulders, and in a manner cover his face. The faces of all their priests are painted as ugly as they can devise; in their hands they had every one his rattle, some base, some smaller.”—
Smith's Virginia.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,
“They have also another superstition, that they use in storms, when the waters are rough in the rivers and on the sea-coasts. Their conjurers runne to the water sides, or passing in their boats, after many hellish outcries and invocations, they cast tobacco, copper, pocones, or such trash into the water, to pacify that god, whom they think to be very angry in these storms.”—
Smith's Virginia.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
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,
“The manner of their devotion is sometimes to make a great fire, in the house or fields, and all to sing and dance about it with rattels and shouts together, four or five hours. Sometimes they set a man in the midst, and about him they dance and sing, he all the while clapping his hands, as if he would keepe time; and after their songs and dancings ended, they go to their feasts.”—
Smith's Virginia.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 festivalNow 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.
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 treeLong 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
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,
‘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,
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.
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
‘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,
And his war-chiefs round him wait,
To decide in solemn council
Their illustrious captive's fate.
XIV.
Though many honor'd brave Sir JohnFor 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,
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 abroadHeralds aloud make known,
That soon the great Sir John must die,
Before the monarch's throne.
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,
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 placedA 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;
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
After Captain Smith had been taken prisoner by Opechancanough, he was led in triumph through several of the tribes and witnessed many of the strange ceremonies of the Indians, till at last he was brought to the residence of the Emperor Powhatan. The scenes which occurred there, are described as follows, by John Burk in his History of Virginia, a work of which only one volume was completed, bringing the history down no later than 1624. This volume is highly valuable as far as it goes, and exhibits so much ability as to make it a matter of much regret that the author did not live to complete his work.
“On the entrance of Smith, Powhatan was dressed in a cloak made of the skins of the racoon. On either hand of the chief sat two young girls, his daughters. His counsellors, adorned with shells and feathers, were ranged on each side of the house, with an equal number of women standing behind them. On Smith's entrance, the attendants of Powhatan shouted. The queen of Appamattox was appointed to bring him water to wash, whilst another dried his hands with a bunch of feathers.
“A consultation of the emperor and his council having taken place, it was adjudged expedient to put Smith to death, as a man whose superior courage and genius made him peculiarly dangerous to the safety of the Indians. The decision being made known to the attendants of the emperor, preparations immediately commenced for carrying it into execution by means as simple and summary as the nature of the trial.
“Two large stones were brought in and placed at the feet of the emperor; and on them was laid the head of the prisoner. Next a large club was brought in, with which Powhatan, for whom out of respect was reserved the honor, prepared to crush the head of his captive. The assembly looked on with sensations of awe, probably not unmixed with pity for the fate of an enemy whose bravery had commanded their admiration, and in whose misfortunes their hatred was possibly forgotten.
“The fatal club was uplifted; the breasts of the company already, by anticipation, felt the dreadful crash, which was to bereave the wretched victim of life; when the young and beautiful Pocahontas, the beloved daughter of the emperor, with a shriek of terror and agony, threw herself on the body of Smith. Her hair was loose and her eyes streaming with tears, while her whole manner bespoke the deep distress and agony of her bosom. She cast a beseeching look at her furious and astonished father, deprecating his wrath, and imploring his pity and the life of his prisoner, with all the eloquence of mute, but impassioned sorrow.
“The remainder of this scene is honorable to the character of Powhatan. It will remain a lasting monument, that, though different principles of action and the influence of custom have given to the manners and opinions of this people an appearance neither amiable nor virtuous, they still retain the noblest property of the human character, the touch of pity, and the feeling of humanity.
“The club of the emperor was still uplifted; but pity had touched his bosom, and his eye was every moment losing its fierceness. He looked round to collect his fortitude, or perhaps to find an excuse for his weakness in the faces of his attendants. But every eye was suffused with the sweetly contagious softness. The generous savage no longer hesitated. The compassion of the rude state is neither ostentatious nor dilatory; nor does it insult its object by the exaction of impossible conditions. Powhatan lifted his grateful and delighted daughter, and the captive, scarcely yet assured of safety, from the earth.”
In the breast of Powhatan;
The warrior to the father yields,
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,
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.
| Powhatan | |