Lyrical and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! lightly beam'd the maiden's smile,
In careless mood, in royal bow'r,
Ere yet the stranger's step of guile,
Bore one soft beauty from the flow'r.
When stars were mingling in the sky,
And moon-beam's dress'd the rippling water,
Sung forth, in untaught melody,
The proud, the great Powhatan's daughter.

Oh! then, when ev'ning's empress shone,
Like some rich eastern prince, alone;
When fleecy clouds but tipp'd the blue
Of the rich sky they wander'd thro';
And waves were rippling on in smiles,
Among the forest-circled isles,
Where, save the Indian borne abroad
By summer tempests, nought has trod—
And twilight's brown, if there it came,
Was crown'd with light, and robed in flame,
And fell upon the mountain's height,
Like clouds that wander forth at night,
To show the light that Phœbus gave,
Ere yet he sunk beneath the wave.

'Twas then, that far beyond her race,
And save in feature, all possessing,
Of gentle heart and fairy grace,
The European deems his blessing.
Of far advanced mind and soul,
Where, nature in a wayward hour,
Created her the perfect whole,
The bud of her own forest flower.
Adorn'd with that instinctive grace,
The bosom so delights to trace,
That speaks, and even can create
An active feature in our fate,
Tho' in itself inanimate:
That playful, more than childishness,
That sways to such a fond excess;

Tho' less in mind than manner, still
The perfect portraiture of will;
And makes, like soul, its magic sway,
Which still impulsive, we obey.

Hark! the warwhoop—shrilly sounding,
“'Tis my father” said the maid,
Like the sprightly red-deer bounding—
She has left the long arcade,
Where her fairy hands had singled
Flow'rs of every varied hue,
And in one rich arbour mingled,
'Neath her fostering care they grew!
“Tis my father,” said the maid,
As the flow'rs aside she laid,
“But why the warwhoop's note should sound,
When the hatchet's under ground—

The burial of the Tomahawk, smoking of the Calumet, or Pipe of Peace, and exchange of the Wampanoag, are the symbolical ratifications and assurances of the faith of a treaty.

Sure the Oneida cannot dare
Wake the vengeful voice of war,
When they laid the hatchet low,
And smoked the pipe three moon's ago.
The leaf was burnt, the calumet,
Wafted fumes that quickly met,
And the spirit from above,
Bless'd the sacred sign of love.”

Powhatan, his warriors has gather'd around,
A rock is his throne,
And his footstool, a stone,
And a circlet of feathers, his temples has bound

No courtier's servile bow is there,
But every head is raised in air,
And every one a warrior true,
A circle round his monarch drew.
The King, in conscious majesty,
Rolled around his fiery eye,
As the meteor seen on high,
Speaks of fearful things to be,
To all it sees, and it can see.
At his feet, and on the stone,
Sat a sylphlike form alone,
Whose long dark tresses streaming down.
Fell upon her shoulder's brown,
Whilst her cheek and eye, upturn'd,
With a fire unusual burn'd.

“Father, said she, when last we parted,
You said upon a Bison chace
You went, and every fawn you started,
A pet of mine, my isle should grace.
The isle with many a flow'r is bright—
The bow'r is all prepared to be
A prison for the fawn so light,
And I to keep its prison key.
You come, and I am all prepared,
My little prisoner to guard;
But, not the Bison's head, I see,
Nor yet the fawn you destined me.
I've sought my uncle, and he grew
More dark and madning in his hue!

I seek my father's face, and now
Behold the red spot on his brow.
What may this mean? no Bison chace
Ere roused that symbol on your face—
What may this mean? where'er I turn,
I mark an equal fury burn;
Your warwhoop sounded as you came—
The fatal truth—your brow is dark,
And where's my brother—ah! I mark
I view it in your shuddering frame.”
“Ay, Girl you have no brother now,
Nor I, a son—my hapless line,
A few short years will cease to shine;
And, if the mark is on my brow,
'Tis in my soul, and still must glow.
A fatal Bison hunt—but, heaven
A just and sweet revenge has given,
And I will pause, ere in my hate
And madness, I anticipate—
The torture, that the wretch must feel,
Who struck with too successful steel!
But that the foe is brave, even I
Who never felt like this before,
Could brush the tear drop from mine eye,
And like the prisoner slave deplore.

Impatient turn'd the anguish'd chief,
And bade a stern dark warrior nigh,
And whisper'd a command, which grief

Had made imperfect—“let him die,
As I decreed, before me now,
I cannot longer thus delay,
To see his blood, like water flow,
Altho' it spares my destined prey
The pangs that vengeance might devise,
To make him feel them, as he dies.
Let him appear, and meet his fate—
And if he feels his tortures great—
If one suppress'd, or sudden shriek,
His anguish, or his fear bespeak,
Then shall my heart perchance deny,
The wretch, the blessed boon to die,
Since, I were woman, to provide,
For my brave son, a coward guide.

[OMITTED]

The block is prepared, and the hatchet is bared,
And the chiefs are all nigh, with their tomahawk's reared;
The prisoner they bring
In the mid'st of the ring,
And the King bids a circle around them be cleared.

“White-man,” he spoke, “'tis thine to die;
Prepare the death song of thy tribe,
For, ere the sun shall leave the sky,
If thou can'st perish gallantly,
Thou'lt be beyond our scorn and jibe!

If that thou be'st the man I deem thee,
Altho' I hate, I must esteem thee.
Then, as a warrior, quick prepare,
The song, the spirits love to hear,
Who wander in the midway sky,
To bear the souls of those who die,
Like warriors, bravely, up on high.”

“Monarch!” the prisoner spoke, that fear
Has never been my bosom's care,
Thou may'st have seen, when last we met—
The bear-skin on thy limbs, was wet
With blood, which once own'd kindred tides,
With that which in thy bosom glides.”
“Tis well,” returned the Chief, “thy boast,
But tells me what my heart has lost;
And, tho' my foe, and one whom I
Have so much cause to wish to die,
Yet, has thy taunt, but nobly told,
That thou wert brave, and brave as bold.
Speak on thy death song, it is great,
To see the brave man meet his fate.”

“That, I fear not death,” the captive said,
Go, ask the many of your dead—
In battle field, with equal foes,
I neither stay, nor shrink from blows;
But, here, unarm'd, it were not well,
For brave men, that the chain'd man fell?”
“Give him a hatchet,” the chief spoke,
“A knife—now Captive, stroke for stroke!”

“No monarch! 'tis not this—my land
Wields not such weapons from their hand.”
Loud murmur'd then the chiefs around—
“Where is this people to be found,
These women, who can draw no bow
Nor swift the bloody hatchet throw.”

The monarch bade them silence, then
Address'd his captive foe again:
“Prisoner, I saw thee meet thy foe,
And bravely give him blow for blow;
But now, thou giv'st my thoughts the lie,
Thou art not brave enough to die.
He is a woman, I could weep,
That such as he could slay the brave;
Yet he must die, and I must keep
The coward from my brave sons grave!
His faithful dog, shall quickly die,
To keep the warrior's company.

See Note 11.

Be quick, nor long delay his death,
For fear that in his latest breath,
He taint my native land;
I would not have the warrior die,
Nor sound his glorious battle cry,
Nor boast his matchless brand;
But he—I pity, whilst I scorn
The tribe in which the wretch was born,
And whilst I look around,
I glad me, that I can descry,

Not one, who dreads the battle's sound,
Not one, who fears to die.”

They cast the prisoner on the ground,
With gyves from neighboring vines they bound,
And on a pine-tree's trunk they laid,
In very mockery of parade,
The captive's destined head.
The club is raised aloft in air—
The prisoner's features speak despair—
The warriors round, tho' used to see
The foeman die, yet seem to be,
In awful silence hush'd—
The arm that held the mace is bending,
The instrument of death descending—
No mercy in the faces by
Betokened humanity—
When forth that maiden rush'd,
From the low stone, where still affrighted,
She sat, her mental sense benighted,
And clasp'd the club, in its descent,
Whilst on her fairy knee she bent,
Pass'd one arm round the prisoners brow,
Laid her head on his own, and now,
Bade the stern warrior strike the blow.
Oh! Nature, thine the victory, thine
The godlike attribute divine,
That from the eternal fountain stole,
To purify the savage soul!
The monarch has smiled on his only child—

The prisoner is free to depart;
But the maiden is sad, for the peace that once clad,
Her eye and her cheek with its brightness so glad,
Has long since deserted her heart.
In her bower she sighs, and no bosom replies,
Her footstep no longer is light;
And one morning at dawn, the red-maiden was gone
From the vine-covered vale, and the flow'r mantled lawn,
To the home of the white man, by night.