THE monarch rested from his toils,
Weary of war, and full of spoils.
His hatchet slept; his bow, unstrung
And shaftless, in his cabin hung;
His tomahawk was in the ground,
The wild war-whoop had ceased to sound,
And thirty chieftains, tall and proud,
To his imperial sceptre bow'd.
Far in their mountain lurking-place
The Manakins had heard his fame, 1
And Manahocks dared not come down
His valleys to pursue their game;
And Susquehannah's giant race,
Who feared to meet no other man,
Would tremble in their fastnesses
To hear the name of Powhatan.'
* Powhatan. This name, in the northern and middle states, has usually been accented on the second syllable. But in Vir
From the broad James's winding side
To smooth Potomac's broader tide,
From Chesapeake's surf-beaten shore
To where the mountain torrents roar,
His powerful sway had been confess'd,
And thirty tribes one monarch bless'd. 3
The time-spared oak, that lifts its head
In loneliness, where those are dead,
Which once stood by it on the plain,
Soon sees their places fill'd again—
So stood the monarch, full of years,
Amid an undergrowth of men ;
For since the sceptre first he sway'd,
Full two score years ago and ten,
Two generations had gone by,
And twice he'd seen his people die.
Yet from his eye there beam'd a fire,
Resistless as the warrior's lance;
And when 'twas lit with vengeful ire,
The boldest wither'd at its glance.
And still his step was quick and light,
ginia the accent is thrown on the first and last syllables, which is undoubtedly according to the Indian mode of pronunciation, and therefore the true one.
And still his arm was nerved with might,
And still 'twas death to all, who dare
Awake the vengeance slumbering there.
But now with joy the monarch view'd
His realm in peace, his foes subdued,
And calmly turn'd abroad his eyes
O'er the wide work of warfare done,
And hoped no coming cloud would rise
To shroud in gloom his setting sun.
Deep in a sea of waving wood 4
The monarch's rustic lodge was seen,
Where brightly roll'd the river down,
And gently sloped the banks of green.
No princely dome that lodge appear'd,
No tall and shapely columns rear'd
Their finished architraves on high,
With cornice mounting to the sky;
No foreign artist's skilful hand
Had shed Corinthian graces there:
That simple dwelling had been plann'd
By workmen under nature's care.
The sun by day, or moon by night,
Had never sent a ray of light
Upon a lovelier spot than this,
Or seen a home of purer bliss.
Beneath the tall elms' branching shade
The eye might reach a fairy glade,
Where sprightly deer were often seen,
In frolic sport, on plats of green,
From morning's dawn till noontide heat
Invited to some cool retreat;
Then away to the sheltering grove they fled
With a high-curved neck and a lofty tread.
Beside the open glade there grew
Green clustering oaks, and maples tall,
Forming a native bower, whose view
Was more enchanting far than all
The stiff embellishments of art,
That human culture could impart
To garden, grot, or waterfall.
Within that bower a fountain, gushing,
Babbled sweetly all the day,
And round it many a wild-flower, blushing, Drank the morning dew of May.
But one sweet floweret flourish'd there,
Beneath the aged monarch's care,
Whose bloom that happy bower had bless'd
With brighter charms than all the rest.
"Twas his loved daughter-she had been
The comfort of his widowhood
For twelve long years; through grove and glen
She roam'd with him the pathless wood,
And wheresoe'er that old man hied,
Fair Metoka* was ever at his side.
She was the gem of her father's home,
The pride and joy of his forest cell;
And if alone she chanced to roam
To pluck the rose and gay hairbell,
The rudest savage stopp'd and smiled,
Whene'er he met the monarch's child.
Mild was the air, and the setting rays-
Of the ruddy sun now seem'd to blaze
On many a tree-top's lofty spire,
When May-day's tranquil evening hour
Beheld the daughter and the sire
Together in their summer bower.
'Come hither, child,' the monarch said,
'And set thee down by me,
'And I'll tell thee of thy mother dead,
'Fair sprout of that parent tree.
* Metoka, or Metoaka, which was the original name of Pocahontas, is adopted in preference to the latter throughout this poem, on account of its greater euphony.
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