He paused and look’d at Powhatan For some approving word; But a bitter sigh from Metoka Was the only sound he heard. ‘If it is done, then be it so,’ The monarch said, at last; ‘Though rather would I see them fall ‘By the spirit’s lightning blast; ‘Or that our arms in open fight ‘Might hurl the deadly blow, ‘And show them Powhatan has power ‘To conquer any foe. ‘But if the deed is done, ’tis well-- ‘The agent or the hour ‘We will not question, if it serve ‘To crush their growing power. ‘Come, let us to the lodge retire; ‘Thou’lt rest with us to-night: ‘The clouds rise dark; the lightning fires ‘Flash with a fiercer light.’ Now sitting in the lodge, they talk Of their mighty pale-face foe: Pamunky broods with secret joy Upon the impending blow; But Powhatan walks up and down With sadness in his eye; For though it was his settled will The pale-face foe should die, Yet still he feels ’ twould better suit His prowess and his pride, If warriors’ arms in the battle-field The deadly strife had tried. VI. And now all silent in the lodge, The chiefs are both at rest; But, oh! what wild and harrowing thoughts Fair Metoka oppress’d. She loved her sire, she loved his land: She loved them as her life-- What feeling in her heart is now With that pure love at strife? ’ Tis pity, pleading for the lives Of those who soon must fall-- It pleadeth with an angel’s voice, And loud as a trumpet-call. Mayhap another feeling too Its secret influence wrought In her pure heart; but if ’ twere so, She understood it not-- But true it was, that since Sir John First pass’d before her sight, _Something_ was twining round her heart; She felt it day and night. Her heart is sad, her bosom bleeds For the cruel fate of those, In whom she knows no crime or fault, Nor can she deem them foes. Alone and restless she looks out Upon the fearful night; The warring elements are there, The lightning fires gleam bright; She hears the muttering thunders growl Along the distant hills, And many a pause the thunders make The wolves’ wild howling fills. The awful clouds roll high and dark, The winds have a roaring, sound, The branches from stout trees are torn And hurl’d upon the ground; And now the rain in torrents falls-- How her feeble limbs do shake! Such gloom without, such grief within, Her young heart sure must break. VII.