Powhatan; A Metrical Romance, in Seven CantosSmith, Seba
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Powhatan; A Metrical Romance, in Seven Cantos
Smith, Seba
Indians of North America -- Poetry; Powhatan, approximately 1550-1618 -- Poetry; Virginia -- Poetry
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.
IV.
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.
V
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.
VI.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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