POWHATAN. Daughter, mention not thy mother!
PRINCESS. Her shade will pity her unhappy child, and I shall be at rest in her bosom. [_Weeping._
POWHATAN. Rest in my bosom, my child! [_She starts with joyful emotion._] Thou shalt not go from thy father.
PRINCESS. Father; dear father! [_Seizing his hand._
_Music. An INDIAN enters, bearing a red hatchet._
POWHATAN. Thou art of the train of the Susquehannock: speak.
[_The PRINCESS clings fearfully to the KING._
POWHATAN. Tell thy prince, my daughter will not leave her father.
INDIAN. Will Powhatan forget his promise to Miami?
POWHATAN. Powhatan will not forget his promise to her mother; and he vowed, while the angel of death hovered over her, that the eye of tender care should never be averted from her darling daughter.
INDIAN. Shall not then my prince receive his bride?
POWHATAN. The daughter of Powhatan--never.
POWHATAN. The red hatchet! 'Tis well. Grimosco, summon our warriors.
POWHATAN. Speak not. Tell our chiefs to assemble; and show them the war-signal [_Exit GRIMOSCO._]. Go, tell your master, the great Powhatan will soon meet him, terrible as the minister of vengeance. [_Exit INDIAN._] The chiefs approach. My child, retire from this war scene.
PRINCESS. O dear parent! thine age should have been passed in the shade of peace; and do I bring my father to the bloody war-path?
POWHATAN. Not so; the young prince has often dared my power, and merited my vengeance; he shall now feel both.
PRINCESS. Alas! his nation is numerous and warlike.
POWHATAN. Fear not, my child; we will call the valiant Nantaquas from his brothers; the brave English too will join us.
PRINCESS. Ah! then is thy safety and success certain.
[_Exit into palace, followed by NIMA, &c._
POWHATAN. Brave chieftains! need I remind you of the victories you have gained; the scalps you have borne from your enemies? Chieftains, another victory must be won; more trophies from your foes must deck your cabins; the insolent Miami has braved your king, and defied him with the crimson tomahawk. Warriors! we will not bury it till his nation is extinct. Ere we tread the war-path, raise to our god Aresqui the song of battle, then march to triumph and to glory.
Aresqui! Aresqui! Lo! thy sons for war prepare! Snakes adorn each painted head, While the cheek of flaming red Gives the eye its ghastly glare. Aresqui! Aresqui! Through the war-path lead aright, Lo! we're ready for the fight.