CANTO FIRST.

The monarch rested from his toils, Weary of war, and full of spoils. His hatchet slept; his bow, unstrung And shaftless, in his cabin hung; His tomahawk was in the ground, The wild war-whoop had ceased to sound, And thirty chieftains, tall and proud, To his imperial sceptre bow’d. Far in their mountain lurking-place The Manakins had heard his fame,{1} And Manahocks dared not come down His valleys to pursue their game; And Susquehannah’s giant race,{2} Who feared to meet no other man, Would tremble in their fastnesses To hear the name of Powhatan.[A] From the broad James’s winding side To smooth Potomac’s broader tide, From Chesapeake’s surf-beaten shore To where the mountain torrents roar, His powerful sway had been confess’d, And thirty tribes one monarch bless’d.{3}

The time-spared oak, that lifts its head In loneliness, where those are dead, Which once stood by it on the plain, Soon sees their places fill’d again— So stood the monarch, full of years, Amid an undergrowth of men; For since the sceptre first he sway’d, Full two score years ago and ten, Two generations had gone by, And twice he’d seen his people die. Yet from his eye there beam’d a fire, Resistless as the warrior’s lance; And when ’twas lit with vengeful ire, The boldest wither’d at its glance. And still his step was quick and light, And still his arm was nerved with might, And still ’twas death to all, who dare Awake the vengeance slumbering there. But now with joy the monarch view’d His realm in peace, his foes subdued, And calmly turn’d abroad his eyes O’er the wide work of warfare done, And hoped no coming cloud would rise To shroud in gloom his setting sun.

Deep in a sea of waving wood{4} The monarch’s rustic lodge was seen, Where brightly roll’d the river down, And gently sloped the banks of green. No princely dome that lodge appear’d, No tall and shapely columns rear’d Their finished architraves on high, With cornice mounting to the sky; No foreign artist’s skilful hand Had shed Corinthian graces there: That simple dwelling had been plann’d By workmen under nature’s care. The sun by day, or moon by night, Had never sent a ray of light Upon a lovelier spot than this, Or seen a home of purer bliss. Beneath the tall elms’ branching shade The eye might reach a fairy glade, Where sprightly deer were often seen, In frolic sport, on plats of green, From morning’s dawn till noontide heat Invited to some cool retreat; Then away to the sheltering grove they fled With a high-curved neck and a lofty tread. Beside the open glade there grew Green clustering oaks, and maples tall, Forming a native bower, whose view Was more enchanting far than all The stiff embellishments of art, That human culture could impart To garden, grot, or waterfall. Within that bower a fountain, gushing, Babbled sweetly all the day, And round it many a wild-flower, blushing, Drank the morning dew of May.

But one sweet floweret flourish’d there, Beneath the aged monarch’s care, Whose bloom that happy bower had bless’d With brighter charms than all the rest. ’Twas his loved daughter—she had been The comfort of his widowhood For twelve long years; through grove and glen She roam’d with him the pathless wood, And wheresoe’er that old man hied, Fair Metoka[B] was ever at his side. She was the gem of her father’s home, The pride and joy of his forest cell; And if alone she chanced to roam To pluck the rose and gay hairbell, The rudest savage stopp’d and smiled, Whene’er he met the monarch’s child.

Mild was the air, and the setting rays Of the ruddy sun now seem’d to blaze On many a tree-top’s lofty spire, When May-day’s tranquil evening hour Beheld the daughter and the sire Together in their summer bower.

‘Come hither, child,’ the monarch said, ‘And set thee down by me, ‘And I’ll tell thee of thy mother dead, ‘Fair sprout of that parent tree. ‘Twelve suns ago she fell asleep, ‘And she never awoke again; ‘And thou wast then too young to weep, ‘Or to share thy father’s pain. ‘But wouldst thou know thy mother’s look, ‘When her form was young and fair, ‘Look down upon the tranquil brook, ‘And thou’lt see her picture there. ‘For her own bright locks of flowing jet ‘Are over thy shoulders hung; ‘In thy face her loving eyes are set, ‘And her music is on thy tongue. ‘But Okee call’d her home to rest, ‘And away her spirit flew, ‘Dancing on sunbeams far to the west, ‘Where the mountain tops are blue. ‘And often at sunset hour she strolls ‘Alone on the mountains wild, ‘And beckons me home to the land of souls, ‘And calls for her darling child. ‘And I am an aged sapless tree, ‘That soon must fall to the plain; ‘And then shall my spirit, light and free, ‘Rejoin thy mother again. ‘And thou, my child’—But here a sigh Had reach’d the aged chieftain’s ear; He turn’d, and lo, his daughter’s eye Was beaming through a trembling tear, And she was looking in his face With such a tender, earnest grace, The monarch clasp’d her to his side, And thus her childish lips replied.

‘Oh, do not say thou must be gone, ‘And leave thy daughter here alone, ‘Like some poor solitary bird, ‘To live unseen and mourn unheard. ‘Who will be left for me to love? ‘And who will lead me through the grove? ‘And when sweet, fresh-blown flowers I find, ‘Around whose brow shall they be twined? ‘And who, when evening comes along, ‘Will sit and hear my evening song, ‘And smile, and praise the simple strain, ‘And kiss my cheek, and smile again? ‘The sun would never more be bright, ‘Joyless would pass the darksome night, ‘The merry groves and murmuring stream ‘Would all so sad and lonely seem, ‘That I could here no longer stay, ‘And thou in the spirit-land away.’

Then Powhatan, to sooth to rest His daughter’s agitated breast, Bethought to make some kind reply, When sudden toward the east his eye Caught the glimpse of a warrior form: Swift as an eagle wings the storm, He sweeps along the far hill-side, Dimly mid dusky woods descried. Uprose the monarch nimbly then, And sternly sent his eagle ken Through opening grove and o’er the glen, And watch’d the form that now drew near, Bounding along, like a mountain deer. He marvell’d if the warrior came With foeman’s brand to light the flame Of ruthless war; for sure his speed Might well portend a foeman’s deed. But as he gain’d an open height, That mark’d him clearer to the sight— ‘I know him now,’ the monarch said, ‘By his robe of blue and belt of red; ‘He bears a quiver and a bow, ‘His plume is a raven wing—{5} ‘Our brother, Opechancanough,[C] ‘Pamunky’s wily king.’ As summer breezes, quick and strong, Hurry a fleecy cloud along, We see the shadow softly creep, Fast as the following eye can sweep, Darkening blade, and bough, and leaf, O’er grassy mead and woody dell; So flew that raven-crested chief, And reach’d the monarch’s cell. And now the day is closing in, And one by one the stars begin, Around an unbeclouded sky, To hang their glittering lamps on high; Chilly and damp the night dews fall, And brightly in the monarch’s hall The evening torches glow; Thither the royal group repair, The monarch sage, the daughter fair, And princely Opechancanough. Mutely the monarch eyed his guest, For on his brow there seem’d impress’d A more disturb’d and ruffled air Than e’er before had mantled there. At length with questions, few and brief, He gravely thus address’d the chief.

‘What tidings, brave Pamunky’s king, ‘Dost thou to our high presence bring? ‘What tribe has dared to hurl the brand ‘Of rebel war across our land? ‘Have traitorous warriors dipp’d in gore ‘The tomahawk, and rashly swore ‘The peace-tree’s leaves are struck with blight, ‘And they will drink our blood to-night? ‘Or have the Manakins conspired ‘With the fierce nations of the west, ‘By the vain hope of conquest fired, ‘Our sceptre from our hands to wrest, ‘And from their mountain homes come down ‘To meet the vengeance of our frown? ‘For by the swiftness of thy flight, ‘And by the lateness of the night, ‘And by thy darken’d brow, ’ tis clear ‘Thou’rt on no common errand here; ‘And be it wo, or be it weal, ‘Thy message, warrior, now reveal.’

‘Whether weal or wo betide,’ He of the raven plume replied, ‘Or whether war or death be near, ‘Monarch, I neither know nor fear. ‘My soul ne’er trembled at the sight ‘Of foeman yet in bloodiest fight, ‘Though many a chief, in battle slain, ‘This arm has stretch’d upon the plain. ‘And in thy conflict’s darkest hour, ‘Who rush’d amid the arrowy shower, ‘And met the foremost of the foe, ‘So oft as Opechancanough? ‘And though my nerves may tremble now, ‘And looks of terror clothe my brow, ‘Yet I protest, and may great Okee[D] hear, ‘These signs, that in my looks are blent, ‘Are marks of wild astonishment, ‘But not the work of fear. ‘And wouldst thou know what makes me pale, ‘Monarch, listen to my tale.

‘Soon as the morning sun was seen ‘On bright Pamunky’s banks of green, ‘The silent groves, where sleep the deer, ‘Waked with our hunters’ merry cheer. ‘With echoing whoop and loud halloo ‘We startled soon a nimble doe; ‘And forth she sprang from her darksome lair, ‘And tossing high her head in air, ‘With springing bound, and forward flight, ‘Was soon again beyond our sight. ‘But still, as fleetly on she flew, ‘From hill to hill we caught a view, ‘Nor lost her course, till on the shore ‘Where Chesapeake’s white surges roar, ‘We stood—and saw a sight display’d, ‘That fill’d us with amaze; ‘The deer unhunted sought the shade, ‘And we were left to gaze. ‘Spirits that dart athwart the sky, ‘When forked lightnings gleam and fly; ‘And gods that thunder in the air, ‘And cleave the oak and kill the bear; ‘And beings that control the deep, ‘Where crocodiles and serpents sleep; ‘And powers that on the mountains stand, ‘With storm and tempest in their hand; ‘And forms that ride on cloudy cars, ‘And sail among the midnight stars;— ‘The whole dread group that move in might, ‘Unless some spell deceived our sight, ‘We surely saw in league to-day ‘On the bright bosom of the bay. ‘Whether for sport, in social mood, ‘They met to sail upon the flood; ‘Or bent on deeds of high design, ‘They sought their forces to combine; ‘Whether they came to blast or bless, ‘We did not learn, nor could we guess. ‘Their shallop was a stately thing, ‘And gaily moved in lofty pride, ‘Like a mountain eagle on the wing, ‘Or swan upon the river tide. ‘And three tall spires the shallop bore, ‘That tower’d above our forest trees, ‘And each a blood-red streamer wore, ‘That floated idly on the breeze. ‘And thrice in awful majesty ‘They sail’d across that deep, broad bay; ‘And as they turn’d from either shore, ‘We heard the heavy thunders roar, ‘And saw the lightnings flashing wide ‘From out their mammoth shallop’s side; ‘And then a cloud of smoky hue ‘Around her waist arose to view; ‘And rolling on the wind away, ‘It floated slowly down the bay. ‘And while in ambush near the beach ‘We watch’d the course the shallop took, ‘She came within an arrow’s reach; ‘And then it seem’d as though she shook ‘Her white wings, like a hovering bird ‘That stoops to light upon a spray; ‘And sounds of voices now were heard, ‘But motionless the shallop lay. ‘And then a little skiff was seen, ‘And some were paddling toward the shore; ‘Their form was human, but their mein ‘Semblance of higher lineage bore; ‘And one might read upon their face ‘Pale proofs of an unearthly race. ‘And when they brought their skiff to land, ‘They knelt them down upon the sand ‘Of that smooth beach; and on the sky ‘They fix’d a thoughtful, gazing eye, ‘And long they look’d, and long they knelt, ‘And loud they talk’d, as though there dwelt ‘Some viewless spirits above their head, ‘Who listen’d to the words they said. ‘And when they rose from bended knee, ‘They stood beneath a birchen tree, ‘And tore up a turf, and a branch they broke, ‘And utter’d strange and uncouth names; ‘But all we learn’d, of the words they spoke, ‘Was “England and King James.” ‘Then back as they came we saw them glide ‘O’er the rippling wave in their painted skiff, ‘And they clomb up the mammoth shallop’s side, ‘That darken’d the wave like a mountain cliff. ‘And soon she was moving away on the flood, ‘Like a cloud which the mountain breezes fan, ‘And with wings of white and streamers of blood, ‘She bent her course to Kecoughtan.[E] ‘Then up the wave that bears thy name ‘Along by the winding shore she swept; ‘And crouching low, as if for game, ‘Through thickets watchfully we crept; ‘Till by that jutting point of land, ‘Where the weary waters lingering go, ‘And Paspahey’s[F] tall forests stand, ‘And their shadows on the eddy throw, ‘We saw that shallop moor’d and still, ‘And a throng so awful lined the shore, ‘The very blood in our veins run chill. ‘No longer we staid, nor witness’d more, ‘But fled, great werowance,[G] to thee, ‘To make this strange adventure known; ‘For warriors brave, and subjects free, ‘And courage, and power, are all thine own. ‘The thoughts that in thy bosom flow, ‘Monarch, now bring before the light; ‘Thy will and counsel I would know, ‘But I may not tarry here to-night, ‘For back to Pamunky my hunters have gone, ‘And I must be there by the morning’s dawn.’

Thus spoke Pamunky’s wily king; The torch-light high was flickering; On Powhatan’s stern face it gleams, But from his eye shot fiercer beams, That told the fire, which vigor lit In his day of strength, was burning yet. The monarch rose in musing mood, And silent for a moment stood, Wrapp’d in himself, as though he sought To grasp some hidden, vanish’d thought, Which, rayless, vague, and undefined, Still seems to flit before the mind, A form unseen—But now a glow Of animation rose, as though That vanish’d thought in brightness broke At once upon his view; and then, Turning toward his guest again, Thus to the chief he spoke.

‘Brother, a mist is round my head, ‘And darkness in my path is spread; ‘Thy tale is like the clouds of night; ‘My thoughts are stars that shed no light; ‘And much I marvel what may mean ‘This wondrous vision thou hast seen. ‘That pale-face throng, with forms like ours, ‘Are not the band of secret powers, ‘Which thou hast fancied them to be; ‘This would not solve the mystery, ‘For spirits of fire and spirits of flood ‘Are foes that seek each other’s blood. ‘My thoughts are bent another way; ‘I hear a voice, that seems to say, ‘They are but men, perchance, who seek, ‘Along the shores of Chesapeake, ‘To plant a tree whose roots shall spread, ‘Broad and deep as that ocean bed, ‘And whose tall branches shall expand, ‘Till they o’ershadow all the land. ‘I hear a voice that says, beware, ‘Or thou wilt tread upon a snare; ‘There is a way thou must not pass, ‘A serpent lieth in the grass; ‘There is a fountain thou must shun, ‘For streams of poison from it run; ‘There is a shade thou must not seek, ‘For round it plays the lightning streak. ‘I hear a voice in whispers low, ‘That speaks of carnage, death, and wo, ‘Of injured rights and ruthless power, ‘And tempest-clouds, which soon shall lower:— ‘Some pestilence infects the air; ‘I hear a voice that says, beware. ‘Hast thou not heard our fathers tell ‘What once, in ages past, befell ‘Our race, what time Missouri’s tide ‘Beheld them sporting by its side? ‘While they in fearless quiet slept, ‘A secret foe among them crept, ‘And, ere they dream’d of coming scath, ‘Had wellnigh struck the blow of death. ‘Harmless at first he seem’d to be, ‘And weak as helpless infancy; ‘His face was bright with friendship’s smile, ‘But in his heart was blackest guile; ‘And soon to giant strength he grew, ‘And thunderbolts around him threw, ‘And many a death and many a wound ‘Among our sires he dealt around, ‘And drove them from their peaceful home, ‘Through forests deep and wild to roam. ‘But o’er his head a murky cloud ‘Came down upon him as a shroud, ‘And vengeance seized upon her prey ‘And hid him from the light of day. ‘The stubborn oak that stood in pride, ‘And all the thunderer’s wrath defied, ‘By one red lightning stroke was riven, ‘Like mist before the tempest driven. ‘The tribes collected in their might, ‘To glut themselves with wreakful fight, ‘And swift their darts of bloody vengeance hurl’d, ‘And Madoc and his host were wither’d from the world.{6} ‘Some race of men like these, I ween, ‘Those beings are, which thou hast seen; ‘And something whispers in my ear, ‘Those beings must not linger here. ‘And, chieftain, list now what I say; ‘Hear my direction, and obey. ‘When first to-morrow’s golden light ‘Beams on the sable brow of night, ‘What time the wild-birds wake the glen, ‘Collect thy wisest, bravest men, ‘And with them straight to Paspahey repair, ‘And learn both who and whence these strange intruders are. ‘Unto their pale-face leader show{7} ‘The pipe of peace and warlike bow;’ ‘Nor fail withal to let them plainly know, ‘We’ve calumets for friends, and arrows for a foe.’

Here paused the sage, and waved his hand, The fiat of his high command— ‘Monarch, thy will shall be obey’d,’ Was all the plumed chieftain said, As round his brawny limbs he drew{8} His feathery mantle, broad and blue, And left the hall with lofty mein, Plunged in the grove, nor more was seen.