CANTO THIRD.

Of all the knights of England, That ever in armor shone, The boldest and the truest heart Was that of brave Sir John.{12} He had pass’d through perils on the land, And perils on the sea, And oftentimes confronted death In Gaul and Germany; And many a Transylvanian Could point to the spot and show Where the boldest of the Turkish knights Were by his hand laid low. And when confined in dungeons, Or driven as a slave, The rescue that his own arm brought, Proved well Sir John was brave. But now he was a pioneer In a new world’s solitude; The first to tread his pathless way Where frown’d the wild old wood; And wilder still, the savage tribes Like fiends look’d fierce and grim, But they stirr’d not the blood of brave Sir John, For nothing daunted him. To plant a British colony He had cross’d the wide, wide sea, And found thy future heritage, O sacred liberty! Now, infant Jamestown, smiled the morn, That should behold thy christening; That gallant band have lined thy shores, And named thee after England’s king; And well might English hearts beat high When first they breath’d thy virgin air, For never to them seem’d sky so bright, Nor ever a land so fair.{13} Young hope was hovering o’er thy groves With her banner wide unfurl’d, And on it a mighty empire shone, The glory of the world. And fancy saw the wilderness Like magic melt away, And tender blossoms of the earth Spring to the light of day; And streams, that through the solemn wood Their ancient courses run, Felt the fresh breath of mountain airs, And brighten’d in the sun; And far along the ocean shore The sails of commerce flew, And up a thousand shelter’d bays Bright cities rose to view; And all the wide-spread continent, That slept in dark repose, Awoke to life and loveliness, And blossom’d as the rose.

Now crack’d the woodman’s axe full loud, And fast the sturdy forest bow’d: Tall trees, that waved like fields of grain, Came crackling, crashing to the plain; Their green leaves faded in the sun, And flashing fires across them run; And openings spread, and fields were clear’d, And rustic huts and cabins rear’d. A picket fort by the river side The battle-axe and bow defied; And the mingled hum of the busy throng Echo’d the hills and woods along, And joyous shoutings, wild and free, Rose from the infant colony.

But Jamestown saw a darker day, When months of toil had pass’d away, For wailings sounded through the air, And sorrow made her dwelling there. The summer sun, now riding high, Pour’d down the rays of hot July; The woodman scarce his axe could wield, Fainted the laborers in the field, And pale disease began to spread,{14} And scowling famine rear’d her head, And many an exile droop’d and died Along the lonely river side, Where wearily he went to roam, And weep unseen for his English home. Great Powhatan had been obey’d— No Indian now would come to trade; But hovering round the settlement With bow in hand and ready bent, And peering out from his covert wood On the fields where the English cabins stood, Exulting saw pale-faces fade, And often in the graveyard laid.

Why perish thus the exiled band, Where plenty teemeth in the land? For one abides among them there With hand to do and heart to dare, And in his eye and on his brow Are deeds of daring written now, That to the fainting band shall be Warrant for their high destiny.

A gallant barge is on the tide, And stoutly twelve good oars are plied, Sir John the guiding helm commands, His loaded gun beside him stands, His broadsword glistens on his thigh, The woods are pierced by his beaming eye, As down by the river shore they sweep, Where the shadows of the forest sleep, Till their weary oars they rest awhile On the fragrant banks of Cedar Isle. Not long they rest, but onward soon, Beneath the fervid glow of noon, In the glassy flood their oars they bend, And the vessel forward swiftly send, Till nearing now they clearly scan The groves and beach of Kecoughtan. As nearer to the shore they drew, A warrior train appear’d in view, And each a bow and war-club bore, And now they reach the winding shore, And stand like statues, mute and still, Waiting to learn the bargemen’s will. Like rider reining in his steed, The oarsmen slacken now their speed, And slowly floats the barge along Close to that wild and warlike throng, And as it grates upon the sand Each rower’s gun is in his hand.

Sir John in friendly accents spoke, And ask’d their king to see; They pointed to a shelter’d lodge Beneath a giant tree; And when away where the old oak grew They moved with haughty strides, Sir John and his little band march’d up And follow’d their grim guides. And here a village rose in sight, Where the woods look’d dark and wild, But silence reign’d in every lodge, Nor saw they man or child. Then spoke Sir John to his guides again, And ask’d their chief to see. They answer’d not, but away to the woods They pointed silently; And into the woods with quicken’d step They silently withdrew, And in their village left Sir John Alone with his vessel’s crew. But soon from the forest came again Dark warriors with their bows, And painted men on every side From brake and bush arose; And a warlike throng came up the path, That led from the river shore, And, moving quick, with hideous shouts, Their sacred Okee bore— Great Okee, whose mysterious power Is in the earth and air, In fire and flood and stormy winds, And worketh every where. Great Okee, dress’d in painted robes, And shining chains and beads, Who in the silent night performs Unutterable deeds, And safely through the darkest hour His faithful people leads— Great Okee cometh in the van With war-plume on his head; His brow is striped with black and white, His cheeks are gory red; And to the pale mysterious throng They now are pressing near, But Okee cometh in the van, Why should his people fear? A sudden war-whoop, wild and fierce, Rings upward to the sky, And a hundred warriors draw their bows, And a hundred arrows fly. But answering muskets quick give back To the woods a roaring sound; Each bowman flies, and Okee falls Alone upon the ground. Sir John the painted idol took,{15} And bore it to the shore; And soon a suppliant priest came down Its ransom to implore.

The barge is on the tide again, And rapidly it flies, For long its coming has been watch’d By anxious waiting eyes; And now those eyes are brightening, And hearts are beating light, And hope’s dim fires are lit anew, For plenty greets their sight.

The monarch was feasting in royal state, And many brave chiefs at the banquet sate: His hunters had brought in their choicest store, His fishers came loaded from Chesapeake’s shore; His menials hasten a feast to prepare From the mingled spoils of earth, ocean, and air, And a merry hum circled round the board, That so simply was spread and so richly was stored. Fair Metoka sat at the monarch’s right hand, The waiters stood watchful to do his command,{16} And while on his left his younger child, The gay Matachanna, look’d on him and smiled, And amid the guests, that graced his hall, His own valiant son was the pride of all, The patriarch monarch gave thanks from his heart, That the Spirit such blessings to him did impart. But a messenger comes from the spying scout, Which Powhatan’s caution kept constantly out, To watch every movement the pale-faces made, And see that his people went not there to trade. ‘What tidings from Jamestown?’ the monarch inquires; ‘Do the pale-faces thrive by their council-fires? ‘Are their hearts as light as the wild-bird’s song? ‘Do they walk like a people who feel they are strong? ‘Do our tribes still obey our imperial command?’ ‘Or has food been bestow’d by a traitor’s hand?’ —‘The tree of the pale-face is sapless and dried,’ The messenger spy to the monarch replied; ‘Its branches are wither’d, and sear’d is its leaf, ‘And the reign of the pale-face is harmless and brief. ‘No hand brings them food, their own fountain is dry; ‘A blight is upon them, they fade and they die, ‘And soon Powhatan will be rid of his foe, ‘Without wielding the war-club or drawing the bow.’ When the tale of the colonists’ woes was done, A smile sat on every brow save one: A murmur of joy spread the hall throughout, The warriors gave a triumphant shout; But while other hearts with delight beat high, Fair Metoka’s bosom still heaved with a sigh.

In the midst of that shouting and joyous uproar A Kecoughtan warrior rush’d in at the door; His visage was haggard, and flying his hair, From his restless eye shot a fiery glare, His breathing was quick, and his mantle was torn, His tough skin moccasins muddy and worn, And the only weapon he wielded or wore Was a war-club stout, which he dash’d on the floor. Every sound in that hall in a moment was hush’d, And the semblance of joy from each visage was brush’d. Not a word nor a whisper escaped from the crowd, Till Powhatan order’d that warrior aloud, His message, whate’er it might be, to make known, And declare why he came in such haste and alone. ‘I come,’ said the warrior, ‘from Kecoughtan’s king, ‘And appalling and sad are the tidings I bring: ‘A cloud full of blackness is over us spread, ‘And the thick bolts of heaven leap awful and red; ‘Our god is dishonor’d, and soon will his ire ‘Sweep the realm of the monarch with thunder and fire, ‘Unless the foul insult be wash’d from the land ‘By the hateful blood of the pale-face band. ‘Sir John and his warriors have been to our shore, ‘And their coming we long shall have cause to deplore; ‘Our children no longer can quietly sleep, ‘The wounds of our people are bloody and deep; ‘With smoke and with fire, and a thundering sound, ‘Great Okee was hurl’d like a chief to the ground, ‘And dragg’d like a captive, and borne from the plain, ‘And barter’d and sold like a deer that is slain.’

The messenger ceased, his voice was still; But from that hall a war-cry shrill Roll’d over river, grove, and hill, So loud, so sharp, so piercing clear, For miles around the startled deer Raised high their heads and snuff’d the breeze, Gazed through the distant opening trees, And arch’d their necks, and raised their feet, Then clear’d the ground with step so fleet, That soon the dark and silent glen Secured them from pursuit of men. Grim warriors smote their breasts, and cried, ‘Vengeance shall humble pale-face pride; ‘Away, away, to Jamestown’s shore, ‘Our scalping-knives all thirst for gore.’ Stout Nantaquas with furious look Aloft his knotted war-club shook; His bosom panted for the strife Of war-club, battle-axe, or knife. Pamunky’s iron visage glow’d With passion’s fire, as round he trode, And cross’d the hall from side to side, And shook it with his giant stride. Raged and foam’d Nemattanow, Rattled his quiver and strain’d his bow, And vow’d no sleep his eyes should know, Till he had tasted English blood, And avenged the insult to his god. But Powhatan sat like a rock, That moves not mid the tempest shock; And while he watch’d his people’s rage, Which he alone had power to assuage, Passions that his own visage wrought Show’d equal fire, but more of thought. Sternly the monarch look’d around, And waved his hand: hush’d was each sound; The warriors bent a listening ear Their sovereign’s high behest to hear, While with rebuke and counsel bold He soon their fiery mood controll’d.

‘Chiefs and warriors! why so high ‘Are raised the shout and battle-cry? ‘Why meet this strange mysterious foe, ‘Before his power and arms ye know? ‘In darkness would ye rush to fight, ‘Or wait till ye can see the light? ‘Why would ye grapple in his den ‘The fierce and strong-arm’d panther, when, ‘By waiting patiently awhile, ‘He’ll surely fall within your toil? ‘Calm your fierce rage, let reason show ‘The way, the hour, to meet the foe. ‘Great Okee’s wrongs must be repaid, ‘But be the vengeful blow delayed. ‘Meantime let scouts through grove and glen ‘Watch every step of the pale-face men; ‘Creep cautiously through bush and brake, ‘Beside their path, like noiseless snake, ‘And watch till the certain moment come, ‘Then strike the death-blow deep and home.’

The feast was o’er, the guests were gone, Soon came the tranquil evening on, The bright moon rose above the trees, Soft blew the cooling summer breeze, And forth to enjoy the tranquil hour The sisters sought their greenwood bower. Sweet wild-flowers grew around their seat, A fountain sparkled at their feet, On whose bright bosom trembling lay The dark tree-top and moon’s pale ray. Young Matachanna’s eye shone bright With joy at all this lovely sight, But when on Metoka’s sweet face The moonbeam found a resting-place, It met a look of sadness there, That told her heart was press’d with care. ‘Dear Metoka,’ her sister said, ‘A tear is in your eye; ‘Why are you sad when I am glad? ‘Dear sister, tell me why. ‘And when I smile and kiss your cheek, ‘You answer with a sigh; ‘There is a trembling in your voice; ‘Dear sister, tell me why.’

‘O, Matachanna, o’er my life ‘A dark cloud spreads its shade, ‘And willingly would Metoka ‘Be in the green earth laid. ‘For then to that fair land where dwells ‘My spirit-mother, I should go: ‘But here abides no joy for me— ‘I cannot love Nemattanow. ‘And though rare presents he has brought ‘To win me for his bride, ‘And though he talks me very fair ‘When sitting by my side, ‘And though our father likes him well, ‘And says that I must wed, ‘I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘I rather would be dead. ‘They say that none among our tribes ‘Can draw so true a bow, ‘And none brings home so many scalps ‘As does Nemattanow; ‘And when the hunters’ spoils are shared, ‘His is the largest part; ‘But I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘He has a cruel heart. ‘I love to hear the wild-bird sing ‘Unharm’d in the leafy tree, ‘I love to see the gentle deer ‘Through the forest running free; ‘But ’tis Nemattanow’s delight ‘To slay them with his dart: ‘I cannot love Nemattanow, ‘He has a cruel heart. ‘He cares not for the sweetest flowers ‘That grow beside the spring, ‘He never saves a captive’s life, ‘But a scalp will always bring: ‘How could I live with such a man ‘In his cabin away alone? ‘His heart beats not with tenderness, ‘’Tis hard as any stone.’

‘O, sister, do not grieve thee so,’ Young Matachanna said, ‘Our sire will never compel thee, dear, ‘Against thy will to wed. ‘He is not cruel, who else may be; ‘His love we oft have tried; ‘And what we both have ask’d of him ‘He never yet denied. ‘I’ll put my arms about his neck ‘And tell him of sister’s wo, ‘And sure he’ll never compel thee, love, ‘To wed Nemattanow.’

Now in the monarch’s quiet lodge Sleep comes its balm to bring, And o’er the young and innocent Spreads out its angel wing, And fans the trembling tear away From the closed lids at rest, And steeps in soft forgetfulness The day-dreams of the breast.

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!

’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.

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.’

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.