‘And corn to make them bread, ‘And a space to build their cabins, ‘And a spot to bury their dead. ‘If Powhatan will grant them this, ‘We have no cause to fear, ‘But loads of shining treasures ‘Shall enrich us every year.’ XI. Here paused Pamunky’s giant king, And slowly left the council ring, And cross’d the hall to the outer door, And soon returning, gravely bore A loaded quiver--’twas not fill’d With barbed shafts that blood had spill’d, But gorgeous toys of English art To captivate the savage heart. While Powhatan with searching eyes Survey’d the strange and glittering prize, The chiefs and warriors gather near, And wait their sovereign’s voice to hear, And gazing eagerly, meanwhile, Pour their whole soul upon the pile. At length the monarch waved his hand, The warriors backward farther stand, And turn their ready ear and eye To catch the words of his reply. XII. ‘Chiefs and warriors! still to me ‘Our troubled sky looks dark; ‘How often a wasting fire has raged, ‘That sprung from a single spark! ‘This English tree, that shows so fair, ‘Must not in my realm take root, ‘Nor till I better know its stock, ‘Will I partake its fruit. ‘These strangers come in friendly guise, ‘And may for a time prove true, ‘But the day we give them a footing here ‘I fear we long shall rue. ‘Remember Madoc, and beware; ‘Guard well our council-fires, ‘Lest we be doom’d to meet the fate ‘That once befell our sires.’ XIII.