That instant, bounding from the wood,
A furious warrior came;
His weapon was a huge war-club,
His eye a living flame--
And as he rush’d to the battle-field
He shouted with his might--
The old woods leapt at the well-known sound,
As if they felt delight.
He paused a moment to survey
The dying and the dead:
His fallen warriors strew’d the ground;
The living few had fled;
And now before the conquering foe
There stood but a single man--
But fierce the conflict yet must rage,
_For he was Powhatan_.
The monarch’s back to mortal foe
Had never yet been given,
And, come what will, he meets it now
In the face of earth and heaven.
Swinging his knotted war-club high,
To the thickest ranks he press’d,
Where fifty swords and bayonets
Were pointed to his breast,
And up and down, this way and that,
His ponderous weapon threw,
And broken muskets strew’d the ground,
And swords like feathers flew.
In vain the rallying forces came
To aid the falling band;
Numbers, nor arms, nor courage could
The monarch’s rage withstand.
At last, pale-faces in their turn
To the sheltering forest fly,
Nor longer hold the king at bay,
For, they that linger, die.