But Jamestown show’d another sight To that bright morning sun-- Three hundred hostile men stood there, All arm’d with sword and gun, And breathing out a stern resolve To hunt the savage race, With fire and sword and ceaseless war, Till not a single trace Of all the tribes of Powhatan Should in the land be seen, To cry for blood, or tell the world That such a race had been. How these were saved from blood and death On that red night of wo, The Indian never knew, and now It matters not to know. Enough, that timely warning came For them to up and arm; That when the gleam of the Indian torch Flash’d out its first alarm, A dozen muskets blazed at once, And torch and bearer fell, And the foe fled swift when he heard the roar Through the echoing forest swell. XII. Henceforth the course of war is changed-- In one devoted band The desperate colonists march forth In arms to scour the land; And the flying savage, looking back From the hill-top, often sees The flames of his burning lodge dart up Above the forest trees. The blood of old and young alike Is pour’d upon the plains, And through the realm of Powhatan Wide desolation reigns. Like hunted deer through grove and glen The bleeding victims die, And villages by the river banks In smoking ruins lie. At last the broken, flying tribes In many a rallying band, Meet round the home of Powhatan For one more desperate stand. And here an oath each warrior swears, To fall--if he must fall-- With face to the foe, and hand to his bow, And his back to the council-hall. XIII. The fearful battle soon grows warm Between the opposing foes-- Three hundred muskets in the field Against three thousand bows. And thickly flew with deadly aim The Indian arrows then; But where one man by an arrow fell, The musket slaughter’d ten. Pamunky, wounded, leaves the field, Stout Nantaquas is slain, And many a brave and valiant chief Lies stretch’d upon the plain; But still the battle fiercer grows Till near the close of day, And neither side the victory gains, And neither side gives way. And now with sword and bayonet, Their ammunition gone, With firmness toward the faltering foe The colonists press on, And hand to hand, and foot to foot, Their deadly weapons ply-- The white man takes the ground at last, The Indians fall or fly. XIV.