A week of winter storms had pass’d,
And brighter days now shone,
And Powhatan no longer sat
In his winter lodge alone,
But in his council-hall appear’d
Among his warriors bold;
And all his chiefs were gather’d there,
A council-talk to hold.
And long about those royal gifts
They talk’d with solemn air;
Gifts from a land beyond the sea,
Which only kings might wear;
And many questions had been raised,
And many doubts remain’d,
What secret charm for good or ill
Those wondrous gifts contain’d.
But ere those doubts were half resolved,
While yet the talk went on,
One of the outer guard rush’d in,
Exclaiming that Sir John
And fifty of his pale-face tribe,
All marching in a file
Across the woods, with shining arms,
Were now within a mile
Of the council-hall. An instant fire
Flash’d from each warrior’s eye,
But there was no tumultuous rush,
No shout or battle-cry;
With knitted brow and silent step
Each seized his club and bow,
And girded on his scalping-knife;
And now in one grim row,
A hundred warriors arm’d for death,
And led by their great king,
Before the council-hall appear,
And wait what fate may bring.