Now deep the sorrow, pale the fear, That fell on Jamestown’s sons; New forts are built, their swords new sharp’d, And loaded are their guns; And all their homes are picketed, And all their doors are barr’d, And fifty men with loaded arms By day and night keep guard. And now they sadly wish Sir John Were there again to throw The terror of his valiant arm Around their savage foe. But where they could, and where they must, They still their labor plied, And in the field the farmer toil’d With musket by his side. Oh, these were sad and fearful days; Death lurk’d in every sound; And English blood was often spilt Like water on the ground; And eagerly revenge and fear Watch’d every dark wood-side, And the sound of many a musket shot Told where an Indian died. XII. Where rests the monarch’s daughter now? Can she such scenes abide? She’s gone a far and weary way, To bright Potomac’s side. The coldness of her father’s eye Has made her eye grow dim-- Sir John has gone beyond the sea, And her heart is gone with him; And the sound of war, and the sight of blood, That stain’d her native wild, Have thrown a gloom on the weary life Of the fair and gentle child. She could not rest in her father’s lodge, Nor bide in her summer bower, But wander’d alone about the woods, And droop’d like a fading flower. The monarch watch’d her changing hue In sunshine and in shade, And the father’s heart within him yearn’d When he saw her beauty fade. For fifteen years her joyous heart, And smiling cheek and eye, Had been the light of the old man’s life, And he could not see her die. XIII.