In the centre of the hall is placed
A square and massive stone,
And beds of twigs and forest leaves
Are thickly round it strown;
And there a heavy war-club stands,
With knots all cover’d o’er;
It bears the marks of many wars,
Hard, smooth, and stain’d with gore.
It was the monarch’s favorite club,
For times of peril kept,
’Twas near him when upon the throne,
And near him when he slept.
No other hands had ever dared
That ponderous club to wield,
And never could a foe escape
When that club swept the field.
Now slowly to this fatal spot
They lead Sir John with care,
And bind his feet about with withes,
And lay him prostrate there;
And look and listen eagerly
For him to groan or weep;
But he lays his head down tranquilly,
As a child that goes to sleep.
The monarch with a stately step
Descendeth from the throne,
And all give back before the light,
From his fiery eye that shone.
He raiseth that huge war-club high;
The warriors hold their breath,
And look to see that mighty arm
Hurl down the blow of death--
A sudden shriek bursts through the air,
A wild and piercing cry,
And swift as light a form is seen
Across the hall to fly.
The startled monarch stays his hand,
For now, beneath his blow,
He sees his lovely Metoka
By the captive kneeling low.
Her gentle arm is round his head,
Her tearful eyes upturn’d,
And there the pure and hallow’d light
Of angel mercy burn’d.
Compassion lit its gentle fires{22}
In the breast of Powhatan;
The warrior to the father yields,
The monarch to the man.
Slowly his war-club sinks to earth,
And slowly from his eye
Recedes the fierce, vindictive fire,
That burn’d before so high.
His nerves relax--he looks around
Upon his warrior men--
Perchance their unsubdued revenge
His soul might fire again--
But no; the soft contagion spreads,
And all have felt its power,
And hearts are touch’d and passions hush’d,
For mercy ruled the hour.