‘O, sire,’ the faithful servant said, ‘Would that the pale-face foe ‘Had sent his lightning through the heart ‘Of Rawhunt long ago; ‘Then had I never lived to see ‘The sorrow and distress ‘Of that sweet child, whose life has been ‘All love and tenderness. ‘They led her to the inner fort-- ‘I saw her as she pass’d; ‘Her head was bent like a dying flower, ‘And her tears were falling fast. ‘And then their council bade me bear ‘This message to my king, ‘And ere the setting sun goes down ‘His answer back to bring. ‘The pale-face now, of Powhatan, ‘Demands that war shall cease, ‘And holds his daughter as a pledge ‘That he will live at peace; ‘But if another white man falls, ‘Or a drop of blood is shed, ‘That instant shall the monarch’s child ‘Sleep with the sleeping dead. ‘Twelve circling moons a captive bound ‘Must Metoka remain, ‘And if good faith be kept till then, ‘She shall be free again. ‘And more than this, great Powhatan ‘His royal word must give ‘To keep the truce, if he would have ‘His daughter longer live; ‘And I must fly with the monarch’s pledge, ‘As swift as the eagle flies, ‘For if the pledge come not to-night, ‘_This night his daughter dies_.’ He ceased, and silence fill’d the hall, Like midnight deep and still; All eyes were bent on Powhatan, Waiting the monarch’s will. VI. Then slowly look’d the old chief round; In his eye a strange light shone, And slowly these brief words he spoke In a strange and solemn tone. ‘The Spirit wills it--we must yield-- ‘For vain the power of man ‘To strive against the Spirit’s power: ‘Gladly would Powhatan, ‘Alone, unaided, meet the foe, ‘And all his host defy-- ‘But the Spirit wills it--we must yield-- ‘_That daughter must not die._’ Fair wampum-belts of shining hue Were hanging on the wall; The monarch took from its resting-place The richest one of all; And placing it on Rawhunt’s arm, He bade him speed his flight, And bear it to the pale-face chiefs Ere fall the shades of night; And tell them, ‘Powhatan accepts ‘The proffer they have made: ‘If they are faithful to the truce, ‘’Twill be by him obey’d.’ Swiftly the faithful Rawhunt flew Away through the distant wood; But the monarch still among his chiefs Like a solemn statue stood. At last, with sadden’d look and tone, The chiefs he thus address’d: ‘The old tree cannot always last; ‘The monarch needeth rest. ‘While twelve fair moons in quietness ‘Shall run their circling round, ‘No war-whoop will awake the woods, ‘No blood will stain the ground. ‘Till then, to a solitary lodge ‘Will Powhatan depart, ‘And rest his head from weary cares, ‘And rest his weary heart. ‘Meantime let brave Pamunky’s king ‘Our sovereign sceptre sway,