Now through the festal crowds abroad Heralds aloud make known, That soon the great Sir John must die, Before the monarch’s throne. Hush’d is the song and ceased the dance, And darkening throngs draw near, In awful silence round the hall, And bend a listening ear, To catch the floating sounds that come, Perchance the fatal blow, Perchance the death-song of Sir John, Or his dying shriek of wo. A private door to that great hall Is open’d slow and wide, And a guard of forty men march in With looks of lofty pride, For in their midst that captive walks With tightly pinion’d arm, Whose very name had power to shake The boldest with alarm. The captive’s step is firm and free, His bearing grave and high, And calm and quiet dignity Is beaming from his eye. One universal shout arose When first Sir John appear’d, And all the gathering throng without In answer loudly cheer’d. And then the monarch waved his hand, And all was still again; And round the hall the prisoner march’d, Led by the warrior train; And thrice they went the circuit round, That all might see the face That bore such pale and spirit marks Of a strange and mighty race. XVII. In the centre of the hall is placed A square and massive stone, And beds of twigs and forest leaves Are thickly round it strown; And there a heavy war-club stands, With knots all cover’d o’er; It bears the marks of many wars, Hard, smooth, and stain’d with gore. It was the monarch’s favorite club, For times of peril kept, ’Twas near him when upon the throne, And near him when he slept. No other hands had ever dared That ponderous club to wield, And never could a foe escape When that club swept the field. Now slowly to this fatal spot They lead Sir John with care, And bind his feet about with withes, And lay him prostrate there; And look and listen eagerly For him to groan or weep; But he lays his head down tranquilly, As a child that goes to sleep. The monarch with a stately step Descendeth from the throne, And all give back before the light, From his fiery eye that shone. He raiseth that huge war-club high; The warriors hold their breath, And look to see that mighty arm Hurl down the blow of death-- A sudden shriek bursts through the air, A wild and piercing cry, And swift as light a form is seen Across the hall to fly. The startled monarch stays his hand, For now, beneath his blow, He sees his lovely Metoka By the captive kneeling low. Her gentle arm is round his head, Her tearful eyes upturn’d, And there the pure and hallow’d light Of angel mercy burn’d. Compassion lit its gentle fires{22} In the breast of Powhatan; The warrior to the father yields, The monarch to the man.