Death of Opechancanough

A monarch in captivity was dying—And sad attendants round his death-bed stood;He—the sole ruler o'er a numerous tribe,A savage empire, won 'mid wilds and wood—Like a spent lion in the strong snare lying;Worn with long age and many a bloody strife,Hopeless, o'erpower'd—the noble captive hailedThe dying close of a famed warrior's life.Gone was the power to move each shrunken limb;His heavy eyelids drooped—all powerless now;Yet the fierce fire of those stern eyes still layUnquenched by age—beneath his lofty brow.Wild murmurs broke from his attendants; him—Their Chieftain loved,—was he not almost free;In the dim passage to that dreamy land—Wandering? Why call him back so franticallyThe monarch bade them raise each heavy lid;And, gazing sternly on a pale-faced crowd,"Call the white chieftain of this hostile band,"He said. Then came his victor; when aloudThe fierce old warrior—with stern sorrow chidThe heartless man, and said: "Had'st thou been ledCaptive unto the red man's wigwam—heHad saved from curious eyes thy dying bed."