Then spoke Pamunky’s king, and said,
With half triumphant mein,
‘True, strongly grows the pale-face tree,
‘Its boughs are fresh and green;
‘But I have found a secret fire,
‘That will at my bidding go,
‘And, creeping through the pale-face tree,
‘Lay its tall branches low.
‘My priest a subtle poison keeps,
‘From deadly weeds distill’d;
‘A single drop, where the red-deer feeds,
‘A red-deer oft has kill’d.
‘Rich venison and wild fowls, imbued
‘With this dark drug, have gone
‘To feed the famish’d pale-face foe,
‘A present to Sir John.
‘And ere to-morrow’s noonday hour
‘They’ll droop, and fade, and die,
‘And strew the ground, like autumn leaves
‘When the storm-god passes by.
‘The breeze all day across the land
‘Shall bear their dying groans,
‘And the river-god shall many a year
‘Behold their whitening bones.’