 | Powhatan |  |
CANTO SIXTH.
I.
The warm spring came, and the opening flowerOn the sloping hill was seen;
And summer breathed on the waking woods,
And dress'd them in their green;
The wild-bird in the branches sung,
The wild-deer fed below;
Far up the river side appear'd
The hunter with his bow;
And on the fresh and sunny field,
Hard toiling through the day,
The weary colonist was out
By the groves of Paspahey.
Ship after ship came o'er the sea,
Laden with fresh supplies,
And men by hundreds came to join
This new world's enterprise;
And up and down the noble James
Were settlements begun,
Look'd out upon the sun.
The busy tradesman ope'd his store
Of goods and wares for sale,
And blithely by the barnyard sang
The milkmaid with her pail;
The stout mechanic in his shop
Whistled the hours away,
And sturdily his labor plied
Through the long summer day.
With boding and uneasy mind
The thoughtful Indian view'd
The fatal signs of English power
Spread o'er his solitude;
And oft he brooded many a scheme,
And much he long'd to see
A withering blight or death-blow given
To this wide-spreading tree.
II.
At evening sat King PowhatanBeside his daughter fair,
To watch the far-off lightning's flash,
And breathe the cooling air:
'Twas by the door of his summer lodge;
His guards stood round in sight,
The moon between the flying clouds
When Opechancanough arrived,
With an air of kingly pride,
And greeting great King Powhatan,
Sat thoughtful by his side.
III.
‘What tidings, Opechancanough?’Said the monarch to his guest;
‘Has the tree of these pale-faces spread
‘So wide thou canst not rest?
‘And hast thou come in sadness now
‘To tell thy thoughts to me,
‘And to pray the spirit of yonder fires
‘To blast the pale-face tree?’
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 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 PowhatanFor 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
‘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 fight.’
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 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 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 sonsIn 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 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,
‘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.
“The character of this interesting woman, as it stands in the concurrent accounts of all our historians, is not, it is with confidence affirmed, surpassed by any in the whole range of history; and for those qualities more especially, which do honor to our nature—a humane and feeling heart, an ardor and unshaken constancy in her attachments—she stands almost without a rival.
“At the first appearance of the Europeans, her young heart was impressed with admiration of the persons and manners of the strangers. But it is not during their prosperity that she displays her attachment. She is not influenced by awe of their greatness, or fear of their resentment, in the assistance she affords them. It was during their severest distresses, when their most celebrated chief was a captive in their hands, and was dragged through the country, as a spectacle for the sport and derision of her people, that she places herself between them and destruction.
“The spectacle of Pocahontas in an attitude of entreaty, with her hair loose, and her eyes streaming with tears, supplicating her enraged father for the life of Captain Smith, when he is about to crush the head of his prostrate victim with a club, is a situation equal to the genius of Raphael. And when the royal savage directs his ferocious glance for a moment from his victim, to reprove his weeping daughter; when, softened by her distress, his eye loses its fierceness, and he gives his captive to her tears, the painter will discover a new occasion for exercising his talents.
“In Pocahontas we have to admire, not the softer virtues only; she is found, when the interest of her friends demands it, full of foresight and intrepidity.
“When a conspiracy is planned for the extermination of the English, she eludes the jealous vigilance of her father, and ventures at midnight, through a thousand perils, to apprise them of their danger.
“But in no situation does she appear to more advantage, than when, disgusted with the cold formalities of a court (in England) and the impertinent and troublesome curiosity of the people, she addressed the feeling and pathetic remonstrance to Captain Smith on the distant coldness of his manner. Briefly she stated the rise and progress of their friendship; modestly she pointed out the services she had rendered him; concluding with an affecting picture of her situation, at a distance from her country and family, and surrounded by strangers in a strange land.
“Indeed there is ground for apprehension that posterity, in reading this part of American history, will be inclined to consider the story of Pocahontas as an interesting romance; perhaps recalling the palpable fictions of early travellers and navigators, they may suppose that in those times a portion of fiction was deemed essential to the embellishment of history. It is not even improbable, that considering every thing relating to Captain Smith and Pocahontas as a mere fiction, they may vent their spleen against the historian for impairing the interest of his plot by marrying the princess of Powhatan to a Mr. Rolf, of whom nothing had previously been said, in defiance of all the expectations raised by the foregoing parts of the fable.
“It is the last sad office of history to record the fate of this incomparable woman. The severe muse, which presides over this department, cannot plant the cypress over her grave, and consign her to the tomb, with the stately pomp and graceful tears of poetry. She cannot with pious sorrow inurn the ashes and immortalize the virtues of the dead by the soul-piercing elegy, which fancy, mysterious deity, pours out, wild and plaintive, her hair loose, and her white bosom throbbing with anguish. Those things are placed equally beyond her reach and her inclination. But history affects not to conceal her sorrow on this occasion.
“She died at Gravesend, (England,) where she was preparing to embark with her husband and son on her return to Virginia. Her death was a happy mixture of Indian fortitude and Christian submission, affecting all those who saw her, by the lively and edifying picture of piety and virtue which marked her latter moments.”—
Burk's Virginia.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:
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
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.
IX.
‘Your deep debate,’ Pamunky said,‘Ye may no longer hold,
‘Nor longer fear our pale-face foe;
‘His days at last are told.
‘Their mighty werowance, Sir John,
‘Who exercised such skill,
‘That all the poison of our land
‘Could not his people kill,
‘From their strange fire it came;
‘That fire which thunders in their hands,
‘And burns with a lightning flame—
‘That fire they brought across the sea,
‘To hunt us from the earth,
‘Has turn'd on them its serpent fang,
‘And stung them to the death.
‘I saw Sir John with his bleeding wounds,
‘And his muffled face and head,
‘Creep slowly to their tall ship's deck,
‘Like one that was near dead.
‘And away that ship is sailing now
‘Across the ocean wave,
‘To carry Sir John to his English isle
‘To rest in his English grave.
‘And now this land is ours again;
‘The rest of the pale-face crew
‘We'll brush away from our forest home,
‘As we brush the drops of dew.’
Great joy then felt King Powhatan,
Great joy felt all his men,
And wild and loud were the shouts that made
Their forests ring again.
No more in long suspense and fear
They lay like a strong man bound,
But light and free, the feast and song
And every hunter freely breathed
Along by the winding shore,
And warriors trod their native woods
In conscious pride once more.
X.
But where's the straggling colonist,Who came not home last night?
His friends are out in search of him
By the earliest morning light.
At last away in a lonely spot,
His bleeding corpse is found;
His scalp is off, and his gory head
Lies weltering on the ground.
His wife in yonder graveyard sleeps:
She long before had died;
They feel it were a pious act
To place him by her side;
And slow they bear the corse along
Where the homeward pathway leads,
But a deadly arrow cleaves the air,
And another victim bleeds.
They see no foe, they hear no sound,
But they know that death is nigh;
They fly, and leave the death-stricken one
Alone with the dead to die.
XI.
Now deep the sorrow, pale the fear,That fell on Jamestown's sons;
New forts are built, their swords new sharp'd,
And loaded are their guns;
And all their homes are picketed,
And all their doors are barr'd,
And fifty men with loaded arms
By day and night keep guard.
And now they sadly wish Sir John
Were there again to throw
The terror of his valiant arm
Around their savage foe.
But where they could, and where they must,
They still their labor plied,
And in the field the farmer toil'd
With musket by his side.
Oh, these were sad and fearful days;
Death lurk'd in every sound;
And English blood was often spilt
Like water on the ground;
And eagerly revenge and fear
Watch'd every dark wood-side,
And the sound of many a musket shot
Told where an Indian died.
XII.
Where rests the monarch's daughter now?Can she such scenes abide?
She's gone a far and weary way,
To bright Potomac's side.
The coldness of her father's eye
Has made her eye grow dim—
Sir John has gone beyond the sea,
And her heart is gone with him;
And the sound of war, and the sight of blood,
That stain'd her native wild,
Have thrown a gloom on the weary life
Of the fair and gentle child.
She could not rest in her father's lodge,
Nor bide in her summer bower,
But wander'd alone about the woods,
And droop'd like a fading flower.
The monarch watch'd her changing hue
In sunshine and in shade,
And the father's heart within him yearn'd
When he saw her beauty fade.
For fifteen years her joyous heart,
And smiling cheek and eye,
Had been the light of the old man's life,
And he could not see her die
XIII.
He call'd her to his side, and said,With kind and gentle tone,
‘Why does my daughter weep all day,
‘And wander thus alone?
‘These days are evil days, my child,
‘But long they will not last;
‘I would thou hadst a safe retreat
‘Till the raging storm be past.
‘Potomac's skies are bright and blue,
‘Potomac's groves are green,
‘And brightly roll Potomac's waves
‘Her lovely banks between;
‘And gladly would King Japazaws
‘All friendly rites extend
‘To the daughter of King Powhatan,
‘His sovereign and his friend.
‘Then go, my child, and rest awhile
‘On fair Potomac's side;
‘There will thy days glide gently on,
‘As the peaceful waters glide;
‘And there young health will come again
‘And kiss thy fading cheek,
‘And in thy cheerful voice once more
‘Thy mother's soul will speak.
‘No sound of war will there disturb
‘Thy silent rest at night,
‘When comes the morning light.
‘And when from our dark-shadow'd land
‘The clouds shall all pass o'er,
‘And all these strange and dreadful foes
‘Are driven from our shore,
‘Thou'lt come again, all life and love,
‘In thy father's lodge to rest,
‘And the closing days of Powhatan
‘Will yet be bright and blest.’
Thus spoke the monarch, and away
His gentle child has gone,
A weary way through pathless woods,
Like a lost and lonely fawn;
And now, a sweet transplanted flower,
She breathes the balmy air
On fair Potomac's sunny banks,
And sheds her fragrance there.
| Powhatan | |