The monarch rested from his toils

The monarch rested from his toils, Weary of war, and full of spoils. His hatchet slept; his bow, unstrung And shaftless, in his cabin hung; His tomahawk was in the ground, The wild war-whoop had ceased to sound, And thirty chieftains, tall and proud, To his imperial sceptre bow’d. Far in their mountain lurking-place The Manakins had heard his fame, And Manahocks dared not come down His valleys to pursue their game; And Susquehannah’s giant race, Who feared to meet no other man, Would tremble in their fastnesses To hear the name of Powhatan. From the broad James’s winding side To smooth Potomac’s broader tide, From Chesapeake’s surf-beaten shore To where the mountain torrents roar, His powerful sway had been confess’d, And thirty tribes one monarch bless’d.