That instant, bounding from the wood, A furious warrior came; His weapon was a huge war-club, His eye a living flame-- And as he rush’d to the battle-field He shouted with his might-- The old woods leapt at the well-known sound, As if they felt delight. He paused a moment to survey The dying and the dead: His fallen warriors strew’d the ground; The living few had fled; And now before the conquering foe There stood but a single man-- But fierce the conflict yet must rage, _For he was Powhatan_. The monarch’s back to mortal foe Had never yet been given, And, come what will, he meets it now In the face of earth and heaven. Swinging his knotted war-club high, To the thickest ranks he press’d, Where fifty swords and bayonets Were pointed to his breast, And up and down, this way and that, His ponderous weapon threw, And broken muskets strew’d the ground, And swords like feathers flew. In vain the rallying forces came To aid the falling band; Numbers, nor arms, nor courage could The monarch’s rage withstand. At last, pale-faces in their turn To the sheltering forest fly, Nor longer hold the king at bay, For, they that linger, die. XV. The aged monarch stood alone, By his council-hall again; The unbending monarch, unsubdued, King of his bloody plain. But what was that red plain to him? His groves? his country? all? In his lodge there were no loved ones now, No voice in his council-hall. The old man’s heart was desolate-- His warriors all were dead; He knew the pale-face tree had root, And far and wide would spread. And sadly toward the western sky He turn’d his weary eyes, Where mountains blue are dimly seen, And the land of spirits lies; And he thought, could he lay his aged bones In that peaceful land to rest, Where the pale-face foe could never come, The red man to molest; Where his gather’d tribes might hunt the deer Through the forest wilds again, And plant their corn in peace once more Upon the sunny plain; And where by the shadowy mountain’s brow; He in his quiet cot His wife and children might behold, ’Twould be a blessed lot; And casting one long, painful look On his lost land and home, Ere through the western wilds afar A pilgrim he should roam, He took his war-club for a staff, And his footsteps westward turn’d, And sought for rest in the far-off land, Where the ruddy sunset burn’d. END OF THE LAST CANTO. NOTES. [NOTE 1--CANTO FIRST, SECT. I. Far in their mountain lurking-place The Manakins had heard his fame, And Manahocks dared not come down His valleys to pursue their game.