The day of blood arrives at last,
When vengeance shall be hurl’d
On every pale-face in the land,
And sweep him from the world.
Through the silent night, in the upland groves,
And down by the murky fen,
And deep in the solitary wood,
There’s a mustering of men--
Old Chesapeake sends forth the tribes
That live along the shore;
Potomac’s warriors, arm’d for death,
Are on the march once more;
Fierce Kecoughtans and Nansamonds
Creep noiselessly along;
Pamunky’s valiant tribe sends out
A band five hundred strong;
And a hundred silent winding streams,
By the twinkling stars’ dim light,
Beheld dark warriors whispering
Along their banks that night.
Each band knew well its pathless route
In darkness or in day:
Each had its several task assign’d,
And panted for its prey.
They came where the outer settlements
Were skirted by the wood,
And waiting for the appointed hour,
In breathless silence stood.
The gray tops of the cottages
Gleam’d in the misty air;
They look’d and listen’d eagerly--
No light, no sound was there.
No watchful guards with loaded arms
In field or fort appear;
There lay the slumbering colony
Without defence or fear.