‘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.’ XII.