Wlliam Gilmore Simms
Southward Ho! A Spell of Sunshine >> Chapter VII / Pocahontas; A Legend of Virginia >> Page 114

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Poetry | Redfield | 1854
Transcription 114
Chill'd by the gloom, but chill'd the more

As from the distant wood she hears A shriek of death, that, heard before,

Hath grown familiar to her ears ; And fills her soul with secret dread

Of many a grief the young heart knows, In loneliness, by fancy fed,

That ever broods o'er nameless woes, And grieves the more at that relief Which finds another name for grief. Too certain now her cause of fear,

That shout of death awakes again; The cry which stuns her woman ear,

Is that of vengeance for the slain.

Too well she knows the sound that speaks

For terrors of the mortal strife ;

The bitter yell, whose promise reeks With vengeance on the captive life.
" No bison hunt," she cried, " but fight, Their cruel joy, their sad delight ; They come with bloody hands to bring Some captive to the fatal ring ;

There's vengeance to be done to-day For warrior slaughter'd in the fray ; Yet who their foe, unless it be

The race that comes beyond the sea, The pale, but powerful chiefs who bear

The lightnings in their grasp, and fling Their sudden thunder through the air,

With bolts that fly on secret wing ? The Massawomek now no more

Brings down his warriors to the shore;

And 'twas but late the Monacan,
O'ercome in frequent fight, gave o'er,

And bow'd the knee to Powhatan. Scarce is gone three moons ago

Since they laid the hatchet low,

Smoked the calumet, that grew

To a sign for every eye,

And by this the warriors knew

That the Spirit from above,

As the light smoke floated high, Bless'd it with the breath of love. 'Tis the pale-face, then, and he,�Wild in wrath, and dread to see,�Terrible in fight,-- ah ' me !---