The monarch sitteth on his throne,
In his dignity array’d;
Mysterious power is in his eye,
That maketh man afraid;
The women of his court stand up
With awe behind the throne,
But his daughters in their beauty sit
On either hand alone;
While all around the spacious hall
Long rows of warriors stand,
With nodding war-plume on each head,
And each with weapon in his hand;
And scalps and trophies line the walls,
That fifty wars supplied,
And richest robes and shining belts
Appear on every side.
And all is placed in fit array
To take the captive’s eye,
When he should come within the hall
To be condemn’d and die--
For ’twas not meet to take the life
Of so great and strange a man,
Till he had seen the greatness too
Of great King Powhatan.