‘And him, instead of Powhatan, ‘Let all the tribes obey.’ He said--and slowly round the hall A sober look he cast; A lingering, doubting, troubled look, As though it were the last; And taking up his bow and club, That lean’d against the wall, The monarch turn’d with stately step And left the silent hall. VII. Far up the Chickahominy The banks are green and fair, And through the groves of Orapakes There breathes a balmy air; And there beneath tall shady trees A quiet lodge is found; Bright birds are darting through the boughs And hopping on the ground; Refreshing waters from the hills Through groves and valleys glide; And gentle deer come down to drink By the cool river-side; And there among the stout old trees, From toil and conflict free, The aged monarch moves about, And muses silently. He sighs to think of his distant child At night on his bed of fur: And if he sleep in the lonely hours, ’Tis but to dream of her. And he thinks of her in his sunny walks, With the sportive deer about, And he thinks of her by the bending brook Where glides the golden trout. VIII. Long time had Opechancanough A burning hatred borne Against the pale-face, who had caused His native land to mourn. Sir John had led him by the hair,{27} With pistol at his breast; The rankling thought was a raging fire, That never let him rest. And the insult offer’d to his god He never could forget, Till the sun of this whole hated race In night and blood should set. Sage Powhatan knew well the power The English arms possess’d, And made his warriors keep aloof, And their rash fire repress’d. But now Pamunky is the chief, Whom all the tribes obey, And vengeance its hot strife for blood No longer will delay. He boldly goes to the white man’s lodge, And talks of friendship’s chain, And tells how strong and bright it is, And long shall so remain; And all unarm’d his warriors roam The colonists among, And words of peace and kindness flow From every Indian tongue. But in his deep and gloomy wilds, Where white man never came, He breathed into his warriors’ hearts His bosom’s burning flame. And round and round, from tribe to tribe, Through many a summer’s night, He whisper’d dark words in their ears Beneath the dim starlight: And a thousand times those mutter’d words In his low breath were said, And a thousand hearts their secret kept, As voiceless as the dead. He bade them think of Powhatan, An exile sad and lone; And the pleasant light of that lovely star That once among them shone; He bade them think of Okee’s wrongs Received from the pale-face crew; And the deadly shade that the pale-face tree Far over the land now threw. The secret fire is kindling well;