The hireling and the slave, Chicora, and other poems

Grayson, William J. (1788-1863)

[section]

TO JAMES L. PETIGRU, LL.D.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

After all, Slavery in their case (the Jamaica slaves) is but another name for servitude.—

M. G. Lewis.

Irish whites have been long emancipated, and nobody asks them to work, or permits them to work, on condition of finding them potatoes.—

Carlyle.

I never saw servants in any old English family more comfortable or more devoted; it is a relief to see any thing so patriarchal after the *** Northern States. I would rather be a “slave” here, than a grumbling, saucy “help” there.—

Miss Murray in Georgia.

TO JAMES L. PETIGRU, LL.D.

I ask permission to inscribe the following verses to you. If not a fit offering to your taste and judgment, they at least give me an opportunity for saying how much I admire the wit, intellect, and learning which you have devoted with so much success to every noble purpose; which have never failed friend or stranger in distress, nor shrunk from a toil or sacrifice required by Justice, Humanity, or Generosity.

The most exalted station in society is that of the Advocate who employs distinguished legal attainments and abilities to defend the unfortunate, vindicate truth and right, and maintain law, order, and established government, and this station is universally admitted to be yours.

CHICORA.

I.

Fair is the island shore where first,
To waste and blight with sword and flame,
Insatiate with the burning thirst
For gold, Castilian warriors came;
Chicora's shore, where Nature's hand
Profusely spreads her choicest flowers,
Where not a rock deforms the strand,
Its groves of palm, or myrtle bowers;
No step of Time's destroying march
Here marks the valley, hills, or plains
With crumbling wall or broken arch,
With tower or temple's gray remains;
Where barons feasted once, or fought,
On coursers mailed, with lance and shield,
In cloistered walks, where abbots sought
The bliss that prayer and vigil yield;
But every charm that Nature knows
Shines freshly here—the towering trees,
The sea that sparkles as it flows,
The flowering shrubs, the murmuring bees,
The verdant land, the glassy stream
As placid as an infant's dream.

Here Coosaw's quiet waters lave
Bright fields that blush when Summer smiles;
The sunlight dances on the wave
By white shell beds and marshy isles;
With brimming banks, a kindred stream,
Comb'hee from swamp and forest pours;
They meet, combined, the broader gleam
Of ocean's surge, on Otter's shores;
Light clouds in pointed masses lie
On ether floating far and wide,
Like mountains lifted to the sky,
Of snowy top and dusky side;
Sweeping the river's utmost bound,
Blue sky and emerald marsh between,
Dark lines of forest circle round,
A setting for the pictured scene;
Serenely beautiful it lies,
Breathing an air of Paradise;
So soft, so still, as though a care
Or wrong had never sheltered there;
As though no eye had ever shed
Its tears of anguish for the dead,
Nor heart with sorrow beat or bled.

Fair fields, calm river smooth and bright,
Sweet-breathing flowers and rustling trees,
The honeyed haunts of early bees,
Where birds with morning songs unite
To hail the newly-risen light,
What isles of earth are blessed like these?
No age, no blight ye ever know,
Oh beauteous land and glorious sea!

Still shall your breezes softly blow,
Your rippling waters ever flow,
Blending their ceaseless harmony,
When smiling earth and glowing sky
No longer fill the gazer's eye,
Hushed his last pulse of hope and fear;
When passing ages shall efface
All memory of his name and race,
Without a toil, without a care,
Nature in her undying grace,
Each form and show as fair and true,
The sea as bright, the sky as blue,
Shall glow with smiles and blushes here.

Still shall be heard the loon's lone cry
Upon the stream, and to their rest
Long trains of curlews seaward fly,
At sunset, to their sandy nest;
Still joyous from the sparkling tide
With silver sides shall mullets leap
The eagle soar in wonted pride;
And by their eyrie strong and wide,
On the dry oak beside the deep,
Their watch shall busy ospreys keep;
Still shall the otter win his prize,
Stealthy and dextrous as before;
And marsh-hens fill with startled cries
Or noisy challenges the shore;
And—when from the redundant main
The spring-tide with a bolder sweep
Spreads over all the marshy plain—

Cunning and still shall sit the while
On drifted sedge, a floating isle,
And patiently their vigils keep
Till the short deluge sinks again;
All freshly, beautifully bright,
As when creation's morning gave
To Eden's bowers their purple light,
Its sparkling to Euphrates' wave,
Nature shall still with glad surprise
Fill other hearts; and other eyes
Look with deep joy on earth and skies.

So, too, before the Saxon came
To vex the soil with spade and plow,
Each scene of land and sea the same,
Shone in the sunlight bright as now;
When the red tribes, with shaft and bow,
Held still their undisputed sway;
From ocean foam to mountain snow,
When broad, unbroken forests lay;
And mouldering bones, that grimly lie
By heaps of shell or earthen mound,
In life and strength, with sparkling eye,
Looked as we look on all around;
And joyously the Indian viewed
The setting sun, the dawning day,
Watching with fancies warm, if rude,
The forms of Nature, grave or gay;
The morning then was fair as this,
The sky as blue, the stream as calm,
Rejoicing Nature breathing bliss,
The forest joy, the breezes balm.

Close clinging to the forest shade,
By groves of oak and laurel made,
Where, pendent from the stately pine,
Waved the lithe branches of the vine;
In tranquil beauty, by the wood,
The Indian hamlet nestling stood;
A homestead like a poet's dream,
The glistening leaves, the gliding stream,
The whitened wigwam scantly seen,
Ambushed amid the forest green;
With rival charms alluring there,
Music and fragrance filled the air,
And birds and flowers of kindred hue
Vied, each with each, in beauty too;
There, side by side, the jay's blue wing,
The flag as blue of opening spring;
The flowering maple's crimson bloom,
The red-bird's scarlet-tinted plume;
And stealing, on from bower to bower,
Its tints and sweets from every flower,
The humming-bird, amid the beams
Of noon, a flying flow'ret seems;
Upward or down, to left or right,
From every trumpet-fashioned cup,
With flashing wings too quick for sight,
Insect and honey gathering up,
Till, garnered on his viscid tongue,
Pouring from ruby-tinted throat
Of fervid love the murmured note,
He gives them to his mate and young.

There common fields profusely bore
The tasseled maize—a golden store;

The gourd, whose polished vases bring
Its crystal waters from the spring;
The leaf, whose soft and subtle charm,
In freezing or in torrid zone,
Wherever care or grief is known,
With offered incense can disarm
The torturing power, and still impart
A help to every burdened heart.

There, rising at every wigwam door,
Relics of feasts enjoyed no more
By Indian tribe, a shell-heap shows
The dainties that the stream bestows.

Such, in these sunny island homes,
Where now his foot no longer roams,
The gifts, the pleasures, calm and true,
Of Nature that the Indian knew;
Child of the woods, his nerves of steel
No hunter's toil or danger feel:
Firm is his pulse's even beat
In winter cold, in summer heat;
His drink the water cool and clear
Of springs; his feast the forest deer;
And when his simple toil had won
Full harvests from the shower and sun,
His annual praises to the Power
That gives the fostering sun and shower
Rose from as true and warm a heart
As theirs whose formal service yields
Its statelier thanks for fruitful fields
With all the pomp of priestly art;

And found as ready entrance where
The heart alone avails in prayer.

Here, in this Indian hamlet home,
By sparkling stream and forest shade,
Where Uchee warriors loved to roam,
The harvest feast was yearly made;
Here sachems gathered to renew,
In solemn rites, with grateful hearts,
The fervent thanks and praises due
To the Great Spirit who imparts
The annual harvest, and supplies
Refreshing showers and fostering skies.
No hand would use the ripened ear
Till priest or prophet offered up,
With the first fruitlings of the year,
The yopon's purifying cup;
They cleansed the temple's sacred square,
The mystic dish, the holy vase;
Repaired its seats with pious care,
And dressed with flowers the hallowed place;
Of forest boughs rebuilt its bower,
Cedar and bay, with berries blue,
And to the fire's propitious power,
Stablished the altar-stone anew;
There the new flame was duly sought
With solemn form and ancient rite,

That yearly from Yohèwah brought
To every hearth its warmth and light;
From chafing slips of seasoned oak
They watched with joy the rising smoke
And sacred fire; with eager cries
Hailed the bright offspring of the skies,
Nourished the struggling flame, supplied
Light splintered pine and mosses dried,
And fanned it with the snowy wings
Of stately swans, that hither roam
When Winter's sterner rigor brings
The wanderers from their northern home;
Now on the altar's growing blaze
Are heaped the gifts of ripened maize,
Anointed with the proudest spoil
Of Indian shaft, the Neeta's oil;
Then, newly to each hearth once more
The Heaven-sent blessing to restore,
They quenched their fires from use impure,
Cleansed the hearth-stone from every stain,
And from the Spirit's gift secure
A brand to light their homes again;
From every granary is cast
The remnant of the harvest past,
And with the consecrated bread,
Trustful that Providence again
Would give the genial sun and rain,
With liberal hands the feast is spread.

They spread the feast with dance and song,
To Heaven's great Power their praises rise,

To warrior voices deep and strong,
The maiden's softer note replies;
The sullen drum, the rattling gourd,
With polished pebbles fitly stored,
Wake the wild echoes of the wood;
While floating over field and flood,
Gently as sounds of mourning float,
Is heard the flute of softer note.

Far spreading through the forest round,
Wild hallelujahs rise to Heaven
From every lip—a solemn sound
Of praise for bounties yearly given;
While joyous children, free as air
From cumbrous dress and scholar's lore,
With brave and hunter boldly share
The savory cake and venison store;
And chiefs and sachems, stately bands,
Hoary with age, in badges dressed,
White wands of honor in their hands,
White plumes and snowy down their crest,
Look calmly on the festive throng,
And for Yohèwah's bounty raise,
With shout of youth and maiden's song,
Their graver notes of prayer and praise.

The music hushed, the dances o'er,
In long procession to the shore,
Painted with purifying clay
To cleanse the stains of sin away,

Silent they go; beneath the wave
Headlong they plunge; the priest, the brave,
Child, chief, the old beloved one;
Far from each heart the currents sweep
The year's pollutions to the deep,
And the great harvest feast is done.

The Uchees, a branch, perhaps, of the Yemassee nation, are supposed by Schoolcraft to have held the coast of Chicora.

The yopon, or cusseena, made a sacred purifying drink.

The name of the Divine Being.

The black bear.

This, Adair says, is the word used in their religious rites.

The name applied to the most revered of the chiefs.

II.

The rites are paid on Coosaw's side,
The hamlet's voice of joy is still,
Canoes of bark, in fleets, abide
With morning light the cacique's will;
Beside the ocean's shore of foam
They seek the Uchee's autumn home;
There shoals of fish—as stories tell,
From the Great Spirit the Indian's boon—
Mullet and trout in myriads dwell,
In winding creek and long lagoon.

Launched from the shore, the vessels fly,
Their rival paddles flash and gleam,
Long foaming wakes behind them lie,
And break in lines the glassy stream;
With gladsome look the maiden sees,
Bright eyes of boyish pleasure heed
The passing bank, the gliding trees,
Fast hurrying back, as on they speed;
They note, with ebbing tide, the bed
Of jagged oysters, black and bare,
Rising apace; and round them spread
Long sandy shallows reappear;

Beside their edges, calm and still,
Where shrimp and fish are wont to stray,
With neck outstretched and pointed bill,
The wading crane awaits his prey;
Where Morgan's Point receives the surge
Of ocean's wrath when winds are high,
Coursing along the shelly verge,
The sand-bird hunts with eager eye;
The curlew hastes, with piercing cries,
Where tiny crabs in myriads dwell,
Thrusts down his searching bill, and tries
To drag the fiddler from his cell;
Perched on the stake that marks the shoal,
The halcyon sits, with shaggy crest,
And, darting where the billows roll,
Bears off the minnow to his nest;
Roused from his watch, with sudden fright
And croaking cry, the heron springs,
With legs outstretched, directs his flight,
And slowly flaps his wide blue wings.

The sea is near; their paddles meet
Long heaving swells that know no rest—
Pulses that never cease to beat,
The great heart-throbs of Ocean's breast;
Still felt, though moons on moons have passed
Since storms have swept his placid face—
Still felt, though not a breeze has cast,
On the smooth glass, a ripple's trace.

They leave Saint Helen's shore behind,
The Bird Key's narrow limit pass,
Where gathering flocks of sea-birds find
A nest-place in the tufted grass;
They reach the wonted port within
The Point of Pines, where, calm and safe,
Land-locked, they hear the ocean's din,
And see the billows roll and chafe.

Close by, upon the shining strand,
Hard, smooth, and shelving, that receives
The gathered boats, palmettos stand—
Tall columns capitaled with leaves;
The women rear amid the grove
Their huts, with hearths of genial flame;
Broad palm-leaves form the roof above,
And sapling pines the slender frame;
They spread upon the smooth warm sand,
With skins of velvet-coated deer,
Soft robes, prepared with nicer hand,
Of shaggy buffalo and bear.
The feast enjoyed, in healthful sleep
That active vigor only knows,
Lulled by the murmurs of the deep,
The sated hunters seek repose;
In slumber sunk the hamlet lies,
Light, dreamless sleep that ever flies
When the gray lights of morning rise.

The dawn steals up the eastern sky,
Gray vapors hang o'er sea and land,
On the rank grass dews lightly lie
That cool by night the heated sand,

And from the tall palmetto's top,
On the low roof, fall drop by drop.

So light the land-breeze that it wakes
No slumbering leaf of pine and palm;
So soft its breath, no ripple breaks
The ocean's face of moveless calm;
The gentle swell, so still it falls,
No image of the storm recalls.

The tide is out; nor rock, nor stone,
Nor pebble breaks the long broad shore,
Sloping, of bright fine sand alone,
As hard and smooth as palace floor:
No traces there have yet betrayed
The passing foot of Indian maid.

Above the line that marks the bound
Where Ocean's might is ever stayed,
Where myrtle thickets shade the ground
With fragrant leaves that never fade,
Light sands, that shift with every gale,
Spread in alternate hill and vale.

There, gathering on the loftiest hill
That looks abroad on beach and wave,
In anxious groups, sedate and still,
The Uchees stand, the chief, the brave,
Woman and child, with looks intent
On the wide waste of waters bent.

They watch its distant bound to view
Yohèwah's orb of glory rise,
And mark the ever-deepening hue
On crimson cloud and saffron skies,
Till, darker wave and sky between,
The first red line of fire is seen.

Thence, slowly rising from the sea,
With majesty almost divine,
In purple vestments, gorgeously
He comes, the day-god, from his shrine;
His beams of golden lustre pour
A broad, bright pathway to the shore.

What wonder, when amid the isles
Of Greece his altars ever burned,
When Eastern sage to hallowed piles
Of sacred fire devoutly turned,
And worshiped on the mountain where
The sunbeams first and last appear;

What wonder if the forest race,
With eyes dilated, gazing stand,
Fixed, motionless, with awe-struck face,
Bronze statues on the hill of sand,
And as they gaze, with murmured prayer
Adore the life of earth and air;

Or if, in forest depths, where still
Unbroken silence broods around,
Save where the bird, with ivory bill,
Taps the dead pine of hollow sound,

They build, where Nature's voice inspires
A solemn awe, their sacred fires!

The mist is gone; the breezes rise;
The early gull is on the wing;
Fast to the beach, with joyous cries
And foot of fawn, the children spring;
With busy hands they gather up
The fluted shell, an ocean-cup.

The maiden to her listening ear
Lifts the sea-conch where voices sleep,
And hears within, or seems to hear,
Soft wailings for the parent deep;
Songs of the sea that ever fill
The pearly wreaths, unuttered still.

Unuttered so, in human minds
The soul of song forever dwells,
Though, hushed with most, it never finds
A voice—its murmur sinks and swells;
And he that listens well may hear
The soft, low tone that whispers there:

That whispers deep, mysterious things,
Dim shadowy visions, half discerned,
But beautiful, and with them brings
Thoughts of remembered worlds, that, learned
We know not where, before us pass,
Like faces in a magic glass.

It whispers in each heart and eye
At morn, at eve, when joy beguiles,
When Sorrow weeps, when friendships die,
When Love is dressed in tears or smiles;
And though the words be unexpressed,
They burn in every human breast:

Else vain the poet's art! as well
Sing notes like Lind's to deafened ear,
As the soul's tale of music tell
To hearts that have no ears to hear;
As well paint pictures for the blind
As paint them to the sightless mind.

Interpreter of Nature—his
The art to speak what others feel,
The common grief, the common bliss,
The deep heart-life of all reveal,
Most happy when his words impart
An image to the common heart—

Most happy when, in notes as clear
As mountain springs, as roses sweet,
Murmuring upon the unsated ear
With Music's voice, the listeners meet
Reflected their own thoughts and dreams,
Like banks of flowers in glassy streams:

Such is the song that ever lives,
From Avon's banks, from Scio's isle,
The song that Scotland's poet gives,
Of glistening tear and sunny smile;

Not taught by theory or rule,
But learned alone in Nature's school.

The dusky maiden of the wood,
That, listening by the ocean, stood,
And heard sweet voices in the shell
Of strange, mysterious beings tell,
Felt waking in her simple heart
The day-dreams of the poet's art;
But soon, the transient fancy o'er,
Her flying feet again explore
The shelving beach, and as she flies,
New beauties charm her wandering eyes.

They gather pearly shells, that lie,
Above the swell or surge's sweep,
In the loose sand, where, high and dry,
The storm has hurled them from the deep;
Pierced in the sea, on strings they deck
The warrior's brow, the maiden's neck.

With rapid pace as on they pass,
New ocean wonders meet their eyes—
Medusas shine, a jellied mass,
With fringes dressed of various dyes;
Though lifeless seeming on the sand,
They sting the rude, incautious hand.

The horse-shoe crawls in half-moon mail,
Arching and smooth, of dusky green,
Behind a length of bony tail,
Beneath sharp claws, with legs between;

100

A score of each, in fierce array,
Frighten the boldest hand away;

And sea-weeds, plants of various hue,
In branching bunches court their sight,
Yellow and green, and ocean blue,
Each varied tint a new delight;
Torn from the deep by storm or tide,
They fade and languish by its side.

Rough urchins of the sea are there,
Of rounded form and brittle shell,
And star shapes from a higher sphere
That fallen in ocean's bosom dwell;
Dimmed, yet on every point an eye
Still gazes on its parent sky.

In the moist sand the hunter's skill
Detects the deer's forked foot, and through
The cutting palm by vale and hill,
Keeps the shy quarry's trail in view;
The leaf displaced, the broken spray,
Are marks that guide the hunter's way.

Strong is his bow, and keen his sight,
His shaft unerring in its aim,
The swan's white plume that wings its flight
Is crimsoned in the dying game;
Fast as his arrows fly, the slain
Are stretched upon the sandy plain.

101

Others the winding creek explore
Within the island's marshy bound,
That offers still the tempting store
On its soft banks profusely found;
Large, rounded clams, of inky hue,
And oysters load the long canoe.

They bar the creek from side to side
With vines and strips of oak entwined,
And gather with the ebbing tide
A river feast of various kind,
Or with green cane—a pointed spear—
Transfix the trout and mullet there.

Days of calm joy, of pure delight,
What heart can want a truer bliss?
What moiling town or country wight
Can boast a life as free as this?
No artificial want nor woe
The simple sons of nature know.

When evening comes—the crescent car
Its points upturning clear and dry,
And on its right the peerless star
Doubling the glories of the sky—
Seated upon the sandy shore,
They listen to the ocean's roar,
The merry jest, the moving tale,
Where grief and joy by turns prevail,
And, as the billows ebb and flow,
Light tears and laughter come and go.

The local name of the small crab that burrows in the sand: it is so called by Audubon.

The Indians believe the upturned horns of the new moon to indicate dry weather.

102

III.

Harsh is the tale the victor tells
Of conquered foes: success has charms
In every field, and still excels
In worth and wisdom as in arms;
So they who seize the Indian's land,
Drive him in distant wilds to roam
From all he ever loved, a band
Of exiled poor without a home;
When, with relentless hand, they stain
His native land with Indian gore,
Till not a wandering tribe remain
Their fallen fortunes to deplore;
Then scorn the race as fierce and rude,
With no soft sympathies imbued,
No gentle sense of joy or woe
Like those our happier people know,
But cruel, treacherous, and base,
A bloody and detested race,
And on their name, as on their life,
Still wage the long unceasing strife.

Unjust the charge! when wronged alone,
His bow, in wrath, the warrior drew,
All gentler joys to others known,
The husband and the parent knew:
Guarded and cold—the Saxon nigh—
They closed the heart and veiled the eye,
And left no passion's lightest trace
To mark the stern, impassive face,
But in their woods, not yet afraid
Of evil eye and grasping hand,

103

Where yet no friendly white has strayed
To seize and keep their father-land,
The red tribes spend their summer day
In morning sport and evening tale,
And dance, and song, and jest, and play,
In every hamlet home prevail.
The Indian loved no needless strife
With kindred tribes or border friends,
Till the white trader cursed his life,
And changed its course for crafty ends;
When in the forest blood was shed,
If fierce avengers never slept,
But, unrelenting for the dead,
Long, patient weeks of vigil kept
To lay the tribe's assailant low,
Nature's rude justice struck the blow:
Not justice like the white man's, dress'd
With solemn forms and glossing pleas,
In courts where juggling tongues arrest,
Pervert, cajole for tempting fees;
Not halting, blind and lame, along,
But, like the lightning, swift and strong,
Justice with them avenges wrong.

The wrong avenged, the dead at rest,
Appeased the kindred warrior's breast,
The calm of peace again was spread
From ocean shore to river head;
Far o'er the land of Yemassee
To where the Appalachians rise,
Where the brave tribes of Cherokee
See purer streams and brighter skies;

104

Beyond the mystic spring, that sends
Eastward and west diverging streams,
With Mississippi's current blends,
With ocean's morning radiance gleams;
The magic spring, that whoso tastes,
Around its banks of shade and flowers
For seven long years the taster wastes
In slothful ease his joyous hours;
Beyond the fount whose deeper spell
Gives youth and beauty never ending,
Hid in its dark mysterious dell,
With leafy arches o'er it bending:
No eye can trace its waters there,
The tangled boughs no hand can sever
But his whose life, serene and clear,
Is, like the fountain, stainless ever;
Vainly De Leon's warriors came,
And Soto's bands of loftier fame,
On fiery coursers breathing flame,
Of Arab breed, in stately ships;
Still undisturbed, and clear, and deep,
In their dark fount the waters sleep,
Unsullied by unhallowed lips;
Nor since has mortal foot or mind
So kept the narrow path of duty,
As in the forest maze to find
The secret spring of youth and beauty;
Never shall mortal footstep trace,
Shall mortal eye the fount discover,
Till spirits, to the sacred place
Like doves to guide, around them hover;

105

Winged messengers, like those of yore,
That guided, on Hesperia's shore,
The hero's steps through forest glades
Where, hidden in the maze of green,
The sacred bough of gold was seen—
An offering for the Elysian shades.

Beyond Toccoa's fairy dell,
From brow of rock with mosses gray,
Where waving falls the sparkling veil
Of pearl showers dipped in silver spray—
Light mists of spray, that ever rise
From the deep, breezy pool below,
Tinged with the many-colored dyes
That rainbow showers at evening show;
Onward the restless waters go,
Through rocky ledges brightly gushing,
By groves of pine and chestnut rushing,
And with the river as they flow,
Dark, like its flood, and turbid grow;
So gentle heart and stainless mind,
That leave their native vales and hills,
In the foul city's concourse find
The taint of its polluting ills;
Nor the pure life that knows no stain
Can ever brook or heart regain,
Till in the deep they slumbering lie,
And, raised by Heaven's blessed influence, fly
From earth and ocean to the sky.

Beyond Tallulah's giant den,
A mountain rent by Nature's throes,

106

Where, roaring down the rocky glen,
The stormy torrent falls or flows;
Its waters now a quiet stream,
Now plunging from the giddy steep,
Down rapids now they foam and gleam,
In gloomy pools unfathomed sleep;
From the rent rock you gaze below,
The heart with awe and terror stirred,
You hardly see the torrent flow,
Its fearful voice is faintly heard;
Half down, the hovering crow appears
A moving speck; from rifted beams
Of granite grown, the pine, that rears
Its towering trunk, a sapling seems.

Turn from the din; a calmer scene,
More soft and still, invites your sight;
Beneath your feet, a sea of green
Fills the charmed heart with new delight;
Down from the mountain top you gaze;
Far, deep below, the verdant maze
Of forest still unbroken lies;
And farther yet, a line of blue
Catches at last the gazer's view,
The ocean seems to meet his eyes;
With ecstasy beyond control
He sees, while Fancy's magic power
With witching influence rules the hour,
The surges break, the billows roll.

107

Far over hill and hunting-ground,
Chatuga's stream, Jocassee's vale,
Hushed every sterner martial sound,
With merry song and mournful tale,
By fountain, stream, and sacred grove,
They kept spring festivals to Love;
From kindred nations, youth and maid,
In rival parties danced and played,
And feasted in the forest shade.

So on the shore, each voice suppressed,
The shades of evening deepening round,
By Ocean's side, in grateful rest,
Stretched carelessly along the ground,
Expectant listeners wait to hear
The promised tale with eager ear.

Herbert's Spring, of which Adair tells the story.

The ocean view near Tallulah, where a young lady once said to the writer, “I see the white caps.”

IV.

A Meda-man, who had the power
To draw from heaven its genial shower,
And on the growing maize diffuse
Warm sunbeams and refreshing dews,
Told them how, moons on moons before,
The grain first blessed the Indian's store;
Where Mohawk warriors yearly meet
By seas of water pure and sweet,
Not like the salt sea at their feet,
How the Great Spirit first had given
The golden maize, with bounteous hand;
How the young warrior won from Heaven
This blessing for his native land.

108

A chief dwelt there of humble name,
Age had subdued his manly force,
His feeble shaft and erring aim
No longer stopped the headlong course
Of elk, or struck dead in his flight
The deer, or quelled the bison's might;
And scantily his craft supplied
The pemmican or venison, dried
And stored for use, when tempests close
The wigwam door with drifted snows;
Yet not less earnestly was given
His daily prayer of thanks to Heaven,
Serene his bosom and content,
Whatever the Great Spirit sent.

His son now kept, his boyhood past,
The nation's customary fast;
Seven days and nights, deprived of food,
He spent amid the sacred wood;
There, in a lodge from all apart,
With steadfast trust and manly heart,
He strove to win some spirit's aid
To help him in the warrior's strife,
To help him in the hunter's life,
In field of blood and forest shade.

To calm his mind, his spirits cheer,
He wandered in the forest near;
Gathered sweet flowers in serious thought,
And wished that by his youthful hand
Some signal wonder should be wrought,
Some boon to bless the Indian's land;

109

Luxuriant vines above his head
Their purple clusters vainly spread
Berry and nut around him waste
Their sweets to tempt his boyish taste;
But still, with self-denial stern,
Upon the future blessing bent,
He strives with earnest will to earn
The boon to virtue only sent
By the Great Spirit's hand, whose care
The humblest as the highest share.

Three days and nights of weary fast
And dreary solitude were passed;
Feeble and faint, he slumb'ring lay,
Dreaming the fourth long sun away,
When at his door, of gentle mood
And beauteous form, a hunter stood;
A golden tassel crowned his head,
About his shoulders waving leaves
Of dark, rich verdure broadly spread,
And with them mixed were golden sheaves.
He smiled—the forest seemed more fair,
A fresher verdure clothed the ground;
He spoke—sweet music filled the air,
And fragrant odors lingered round;
“Bear with strong heart,” the stranger said,
“The burden on your courage laid;
Bear bravely; 'tis the good alone
To whom the nobler part is known,
Burdened to bear with spirit high,
Unshaken heart, unblenching eye,
And so achieve the good from heaven
To steadfast virtue only given;

110

Rise from the ground, and from you cast
The feebleness of watch and fast;
Attempt, though suffering now and weak,
The trial task I come to claim,
The manly strife, the wrestler's game,
That so the boon you nobly seek
May fill your hands and bless your name.”

The faster with the wrestler strove,
With warmer glow his spirits rise,
His limbs a strength unwonted prove,
More vigorous all the more he tries:
“Cease, now,” the stranger said; “refrain
From further strife: we stop to-day;
To-morrow I return again:”
He spoke, and passed, unseen, away.

To cheer or try the sufferer's mood,
Thrice at his door the wrestler stood;
Thrice as they strove, as subtle flame,
A spell of power increasing came
With vigor to the wasted frame.
The third day, when the strife was past,
The hunter said, “I come again
But once; the visit is the last;
Then lay my body in the plain;
Open the spot to sun and rain;
Guard well the place, and watch with care,
That no rank weed may flourish there;
And when four moons have waxed and waned,
From the Great Source whence ever flows
Each blessing that the Red Man knows,
Your guerdon's won, your wish obtained.”

111

His mother in the forest sought
Her fasting son, and fondly brought,
Dressed by her hands, the choicest cheer,
The tender bird and savory deer;
In vain all day the dainties wooed
His taste; with patience unsubdued
He waited for his friend again,
Buried his body in the plain,
Cherished the spot with anxious care,
Suffered no weed to shelter there;
And when the stated time was gone,
One glorious morn of purple light,
Sparkling with dews at early dawn,
A shape of beauty met his sight;
A tassel formed its lofty head,
Like that the friendly hunter bore;
Broad, graceful leaves around it spread,
Like those the friendly wrestler wore,
And glossy in the morning rays
Hung clustered ears of golden maize;
Surprised he stood, with joy elate,
Then homeward hastened to relate
The wondrous story yet untold,
And brought the aged sire to see
Where, from the rising mound, unfold,
These richer gifts than gems or gold,
Won by his spirit's constancy.

The sachem looked with wondering eyes:
“'Tis the Great Spirit's boon,” he said,
“Sent by the Ruler of the skies
For grateful rites devoutly paid;

112

Its fruits shall bless the Indian's store
With plenty never known before,
And the Red tribes shall want no more.”

The prophet ceased; the tale was done;
With grateful thought each bosom heaved,
And for the priceless bounty won,
The peaceful victory achieved,
They praise the bounteous Power that gave,
And hail with joy the youthful brave
That in the happy valley, blessed
With lighter foot and keener zest
For forest sports, with shadowy bow,
Drives, as he drove the deer before
On Michigan or Erie's shore,
The antlered elk or buffalo.

V.

Their wish unsated still to hear,
The listening maidens forward bend
The glistening eye, the half-turned ear,
And sachems grave and chiefs attend,
Sedate and still, till one again
Resumes the legendary strain.

A warrior he, whose eagle eye
Flashed with the fires of ardent youth,
With boundless hope and purpose high,
With dreams of constancy and truth,
That life on every heart bestows,
To bloom, to wither, and decay,
Like the sweet flowers that April shows,
With April showers to pass away;

113

He tells the tale—a grateful task—
Of faithful love, Acura's tale;
The love that gentle maidens ask,
The hopes and joys that never fail,
In city or in desert lone,
Wherever human hearts are known.

In climes beyond Chicora far,
He said, where five great nations dwell
Beneath the moveless northern star,
That stands, a sentinel, to tell
The spirits of the earth and air
Their courses through the misty night,
Helping their ministering flight
When sent by Heaven on errands there;
Where hills and vales in winter lie
Whelmed in deep snows; where rivers stand
Still, hard, and smooth, and to the sky
Rises all night the solemn cry
Of the frost spirit as he bends
Along the stream the icy band
That binds the river to the land,
And the broad surface warps and rends;
Where spreading oak, with crystal coat,
And pine and fir are crushed or bowed,
And through the forest drear and loud
Deep sounds of crashing branches rise,
From rended trees the wailing cries,
In freezing rains and snowy skies;

Close by the lake, beside the wood,
The lodges of Acura stood;

114

His the Great Spirit's choicest boon,
The lofty stature, strong and straight,
The foot that traced from morn till noon,
From noon till night, the flying deer,
The buffalo or grizzly bear,
And drove the monster to his lair,
Unerring as the foot of Fate;
His heart was pure, his hand was strong,
Through the five tribes no name exceeds
His in the brave's triumphant song,
For fame achieved in warlike deeds.

But in the chief's young heart, the flame
Of love, with quiet progress stealing,
And warmer influence, daily came,
New hopes, and joys, and thoughts revealing;
The maid was beautiful as Spring,
With leaves and flowers, and whispering breeze,
And cloudless skies, and murmuring bees,
And humming-birds of glittering wing—
Such beauty as Yohèwah gives
At distant intervals, to show
The form of loveliness that lives
Where pure and gentle spirits go;
Scarce seen on earth the vision bright,
When, radiant with celestial light,
It vanishes from mortal sight;
So to the nation's wondering view,
Like some bright flower before unknown,
In wild or wood, of matchless hue,
In beauty's light, Avora shone;

115

So snatched away from human eyes,
In the cold grave the maiden lies.

Heart-broken now, the youth deplores
His loss by forest, vale, and hill,
By frozen lake and river shores,
Moon after moon, in sorrow still;
The bow unstrung, the quiver's store
Of shining shafts all idle lie;
No longer, as they shunned before,
The herds of deer now shun his eye;
In vain the lodges ask for game,
Bear, elk, and moose unsought remain;
And through the tribes the sachems blame
The young brave's mournful mood in vain.

One morn, on new adventure bent,
To the wide wood the hunter went,
For there he knew a pathway led
Through the dim forest to the dead;
Such he had heard the legend told,
In stormy nights, when spirits wake,
By Meda-men and prophets old,
In winter lodge, by Erie's lake.

Onward he pushed, day after day,
In ice and snow, his eager way,
Through tangled swamp and deep morass,
Where moose or elk would never pass,
Till suddenly the yielding air
Grew soft, the thickets disappear;

116

The open wood is dressed in green,
And green the wider glades below,
And flowers of every hue are seen
On shrub or tree that ever blow;
With wondering eyes, and joyous breast,
And swifter foot, the hunter pressed
Onward to where a sachem stood
By the green margin of the wood,
With head of snow, and eyes that beam
As calm and sweet as autumn morn,
When crimson leaves the woods adorn,
And fall on sunny bank and stream.

“Not unexpected are you come,”
The old man said; “your wish I know;
But to the happy spirit home
No limbs of flesh can ever go;
Leave here the cumbrous mass; pursue
Your course; the open pathway take,
That ever leads the just and true
In safety to the sacred lake;
There, by the pictured rocks that rise
From the blue waters to the skies,
Are crystal boats, that swiftly bear
Good spirits to the sacred isle,
And there, released from every fear,
Your eyes shall meet Avora's smile,
More bright and beautiful than when
Her spirit dwelt with mortal men.”

The body's weight and weakness gone,
With swifter course the hunter flew,

117

And farther as he hastened on,
More wonderful the region grew;
No shadow from the rock was cast
In this the dream-land of the dead,
Through lofty trees his passage passed,
Yet pauseless on the hunter sped.

He found the pictured rocks, the strand,
With shining boats an endless store,
And, launching boldly from the strand,
Upon the lake were myriads more;
Straight onward to the spirits' home,
Like flying swans, the vessels made
Their rapid course through mist and foam,
In every shadowy boat a shade.

He seized a boat, the paddle plied,
Nor thought of rising wave or storm,
When in another, by his side,
He wondering sees the maiden's form;
Forward with vigorous arms they urge
Their passage through the swelling surge,
That rises foaming on their way
With curling crest and blinding spray,
And threatens with resistless force,
Like a white rock, to bar their course.

But as the mountain billows swell,
And curl to crush the light canoe,
Obedient to some secret spell,
That ever guards the just and true,
The surge is hushed, the waves subside,

118

And on the calm, unruffled tide,
With placid course the vessels glide.

While, countless as the fallen leaves,
When Autumn dyes and strews them round,
Or when the storm-torn forest grieves
For the green wreck that spreads the ground,
Where the fierce billows foam and rave
With deafening roar, by furies tossed,
Canoes and forms of chief and brave
In the wild deep are sunk and lost;
Sunk by the sin-avenging waves,
Where purifying waters flow,
In crystal-roofed and pillared caves
Downward the wailing spirits go;
There, washed from every taint and stain,
They rise, in time, to earth again;
But, carried by an unknown hand
For other shadowy forms to try
Their fortune, on the pictured strand
The bright canoes returning lie,
Ready for those who next explore
A passage to the sacred shore.

Fast on they pass—the maid, the youth;
The island cliffs that shine afar,
Radiant as evening's peerless star,
The guides of constancy and truth
Direct their way; upon the strand
The light prows grate; they leap to shore;
With hearts of rapture, hand in hand,
The hills ascend, the vales explore.

119

Not in those isles of summer seas,
Where, stories say, no winters come,
Are hills and vales as fair as these
In the blessed land, the spirits' home;
A richer verdure spreads the ground,
The sky is of a softer blue,
And scattered in profusion round
Are flowers of every shape and hue;
Their fragrance on the unsated breeze
Floats exquisite; and evermore
On purple vines and bending trees
Are various fruits, an endless store;
Innumerable birds prolong,
With chattering joy, their dainty cheer,
Of brighter plume and sweeter song
Than meet with mortal eye or ear;
The spotted fawn and timid doe
Browse the sweet shrub without a fear,
They never dread the hunter's bow
And quivered deaths that strike them here;
Not in this gentle spirit land
The warrior heeds his earthly fame,
Nor hunters drive, with practiced hand
And shining shafts, their former game;
No reptile crawls, no falcon flies,
No beast prowls savage and alone,
Nor snows, nor ice, nor stormy skies
In the blessed isle are ever known;
No need for food; the balmy air
Gives life, and strength, and added grace,
And beauty brightening every year
To youthful form and radiant face;

120

With senses more refined, and keen,
And various than we know in this,
Our grosser state, from every scene
They draw a sweeter, purer bliss.

By the Great Spirit's gracious boon,
In forests here, by crystal stream,
Acura lived moon after moon,
Earth almost a forgotten dream;
But when twice six were come and gone,
By the night lodge, at early dawn,
A gentle voice of music rose,
Than morning birds more soft and clear,
And whispering in the hunter's ear,
Not this the life, it said, for those
Whose bodies sleep not with the dead,
Through life's sharp cares and duties led—
Nature's sole pathway to repose;
To calm your grief, your courage cheer,
The pitying spirit has sent you here;
Return, and now, with manly heart,
Perform the chief's—the hunter's part;
Protect, defend, the wants supply
Of others; when the time to die
That comes for all shall come for you,
With bosom tried, but ever true,
Then come: the maid you love so well
Again shall meet you on the shore,
And with you in these vales once more
In boundless joys forever dwell.

121

Back to earth's toils the hunter came:
Among the tribes of purest race,
With chiefs and braves the first in fame,
Acura filled the noblest place;
And now, to leave its vales no more,
Blessed with the bliss enjoyed before,
He treads again the happy shore.

VI.

The warrior's words and glance impart
A charm, whose gentle influence lies
Warm in each youthful listener's heart,
Her heaving breast and sparkling eyes;
But, pleased with change, the circle now
Of eager hearers look to see,
With lips compressed and anxious brow,
If the great chief of Yemassee
Would tell the tale of grief and fear
They dreaded and yet wished to hear—
The tale of ocean mystery.

An aged chief; upon his head
A hundred snows were lightly spread;
A mighty Meda-man—his art
Each potent herb and berry knew,
Could make the eagle, as he flew
High over mist and cloud, impart
A healing spell for every ill
That claimed the chief's unerring skill;
Or from the sun's bright beam could steal
Its mystic power to charm and heal;

122

With subtle sense, his ear could hear
From singing plants, at summer noon,
The warbled notes, as soft and clear
As mock-bird's to the rising moon;
Plants whose slight touch alone could cure
Each pain and grief that men endure.
His the carbuncle's radiant light,
From rattlesnake's dark cavern won,
That burned and sparkled through the night,
A fragment from the setting sun;
Hidden with jealous care, it shone
For the old warrior's eyes alone,
Filling with fire his piercing sight,
And awing with a spirit's might
The gazer's eye; the icy weight
Of years was powerless to bow
His towering stature, or abate
The strength that knows no equal now.

He rose, and stood erect and still;
Deep sorrow marked the cacique's face
Each sterner glance and loftier grace
Lost in some dim o'ershadowing ill,
That seemed his prescient breast to fill
With terror for the Indian race.
With eye of awe and open ear,
And bosom filled with doubt and fear,
The listeners looked intent to hear.

“In years long past,” he said, “before
The life-day of my father's sire,
One autumn noon, toward the shore,
A race with thunder armed and fire,

123

Came from the sea. The warriors shone
In war-coats brighter than the stone
Of mountain caves; their spear-heads keen
As the hooked thorn that guards the rose
With glossy leaves in Cherokee;
And brandished in their hands were seen
Long glittering knives, whose flashing throws
A dazzling sunlight on the sea,
Blinding the startled eyes of those
Who gazed and wondered on the land,
Near the same spot where now I stand.

“Proudly they came, in great canoes,
Broad-winged, like winter cranes that fly
In banded flocks, with whooping cry,
At nightfall through the silent sky,
From icy fields; the spirits use
These wings of might with speed to urge
Their courses through the yielding surge;
Skimming the wave, the vessels seem
Like birds that skim the frozen stream.

“Obedient to some secret force,
With sudden cry the white wings close,
And, resting from their rapid course,
They stop in motionless repose,
Breasting the current as it flows;
O'er land and sea, from every boat,
Unearthly notes of music float.

“The strangers land—a hideous crew,
With shaggy beards of grizzly hue,
With faces pale and eyes of blue;

124

Strong in the power of spells and charms
To guide their steps and nerve their arms.
One grim black chief in silence bore,
And planted on the sandy shore,
Their Spirit's sign; they kneeled around,
And bowed their faces to the ground,
With words and songs of solemn sound,
And forms and rites—an offering made
To the great Demon Power that gave
These ocean tribes his mighty aid
The sea's dread forms of fear to brave,
And cross unharmed its stormy wave.

“Secure amid the sheltering wood,
With wondering eyes our people stood,
In troubled thought, with changeful view,
Doubting if the Great Spirit's hand
Had brought these strangers to the land,
Or some ill-boding Manitou.

“But soon, the doubt and terror lost,
Unversed as yet in Spanish frauds,
To the light wind their caution tossed,
And, lured and won by tempting gauds,
With eager haste they seek the beach,
Launch the swift boats, the vessels reach;
Climb the tall sides; with cautious eye,
In secret holes and caverns pry;
With wonder view the lofty tree
That towering stood, like blasted pines,
Branchless and bare, and round it see,
Hung from its top, long leafless vines.

125

The cloud-like wings with which they fly,
Hiding their wonders from the eye,
In folded forms reposing lie.
Through the long boat, in solemn mood,
Austere and still, the strangers stood;
Strong plates of dazzling lustre spread
On ample chest and lofty head.

“At every sight that met their eyes
The Uchees gazed, with wild surprise
But moveless face; a solemn awe
Weighed on each heart; a secret fear
Shook every simple breast that saw,
In the pale-featured strangers there,
Proud messengers from Heaven, with charms
And spells of power and fearful arms;
Yet, bowing to each bearded form,
They hope the God that rules the sea
Had sent these spirits of the storm
With gifts and joys for Yemassee.

“But as they gazed around, and spoke
Their rising hopes, a sudden sound
From the boat's side like thunder broke,
With lightning flash and clouds of smoke,
Far through the forest echoing round.
With a shrill cry the wings expand;
Loosed by the spell, the vessels fly
Away, away! upon the land
Is heard the long, despairing cry,
Borne on the tossed and troubled sea,
A wail of speechless agony,
The death-cry of the captive band.

126

“One, with the vigor of despair—
One youthful chief, with manly pride—
Braving the ocean forms of fear,
Plunged headlong in the foaming tide.
In vain the billows round him roar;
Breasting the surge with vigorous arm
And heart of fire, he wins the shore
By spirit hands, secure from harm.

“Dripping, he stood upon the beach,
And gazed with horror and amaze,
Till his strained vision failed to reach
The monster in the thickening haze;
Like the gull's wing or breaking surge,
It vanished on the ocean verge.

“He raised his arm with flashing eye,
With lips compressed and burning heart,
And prayed to Him who rules the sky
For vengeance on the spoiler's art.
‘Grant me,’ the Uchee warrior said,
‘To rend the scalp, to cleave the head,
That, here returning to the shore,
They fall in bleeding heaps of dead,
And steep it in perfidious gore;
And so avenged, among the blessed,
Our friends at last, their miseries o'er,
In the calm vales may gladly rest,
Where joys, enduring evermore,
With rapture fill the warrior's breast.’

127

“The prayer was heard. When summer poured
Warm light on land and sea again,
While still the tribes in vain deplored
The unavenged, unburied slain,
Once more from the mysterious main,
On its dim verge, the boats appeared,
And, moved by some strong demon force,
Cleaving the billows in their course,
Straight for Chicora's Islands steered;
There, in the broad and sheltered bay,
With folded wings, secure and still,
Obedient to the spirit's will
That ruled their flight, the vessels lay.

“Warned by the past, the mother pressed
The child more closely to her breast,
And from the fierce, relentless crew,
To darker swamp or forest flew,
Where stranger foot could never trace
A passage to the secret place;
But brave and chief, dissembling yet
Their grief and anger, freely met
The pale-faced robbers as before;
Striving in vain by signs to know
If, where the deep blue waters flow,
Their people lived, or breathed no more.

“While so employed, with gladdened eyes
And hearts of joy, the chiefs behold,
Adorned with dress of crimson dyes,
With shining beads and chain of gold,

128

From the great vessel floating near,
A captive Uchee boy appear;
Brought by the Spaniards from abroad,
Their hostile purpose to disguise,
With tale prepared by Spanish fraud,
To cheat his friends with specious lies,
And lure their steps to trust again
The robber-vessels of the Main.

“But vain the scheme! the Uchee, true
As stars and sun to skies of blue,
And steadfast to his native clime,
Scorning the Spaniards' subtle art,
His forked tongue and crafty heart,
Told the true tale of fraud and crime.

“‘Buried amid the stormy deep,’
He said, ‘a hundred captives sleep;
And now the sad, surviving band,
In gloomy mines, unhappy slaves,
Women alike, and nobler braves,
Dig gold upon a foreign strand.
The fierce marauders come to lure
Our thoughtless tribes to trust again
Their ships, and, like the lost, endure
The torments of the land and main;
With endless labor to supply
The gold, for which a thousand bands
Of Indians, in those hapless lands,
In dismal caves, unheeded, die;
Deep, gloomy caves of horror, where
The passing listeners daily hear
Wild cries of anguish and despair.’

129

“Calm and unmoved he tells the tale,
Watched by sharp eyes; the watchers fail
From lip, or glance, or brow, to trace
One passion on that moveless face,
One shade of anger or disgrace
Strong in the breast of Indian brave
When forced to be the stranger's slave.

“Calmly they heard. The Spaniards thought
The story told as it was taught,
And fearlessly, in troops, pursued
Laborious tasks by shore and wood;
Safe, they supposed, from force or guile,
With ceaseless toil, a sturdy band,
Bright tools in every vigorous hand,
On ditch and bank their labors plied,
And heaved the breast-work high and wide,
Of earth and wood a rising pile.

“But when the fourth dark morning came,
High in the east the storm-clouds rear
Their angry front; the sun's red flame,
Half darkened, casts a gloomy glare
On the fierce sea; a moan is heard,
Hollow and low, along the strand;
And from her haunts the wild sea-bird
Flies, screaming, to the sheltering land.
No sky is seen; a leaden cloud,
Unbroken, spreads and covers all;
Before the storm-wind, strong and loud,
The lifted waves in thunder fall;

130

Dashed into spray, like sleety rain,
Driven by the gale, they blight and burn;
The forest leaves that yet remain
To winter's withered aspect turn;
No thunder rolls, no lightnings flash,
But, through the boundless forest round,
Gigantic oaks, with sudden crash,
Shake, as they fall, the quivering ground;
And stately pines, like saplings bent,
Like twisted reeds, are rent and torn,
And through the air, the branches rent,
On tempest wings are swiftly borne.
Far in, beyond the accustomed shore,
Swept by the storm o'er field and wood,
The ocean waters swell and roar,
And spread a fierce, resistless flood;
No creature stirs; the Spanish brave,
Awed like the Indian, hears and sees
Naught but the rush of wind and wave,
And crashing boughs and falling trees.

“The storm is gone; with early day
The broken clouds have passed away;
The skies are bright; the western breeze
Whispers and soothes the sorrowing trees;
And the hushed waters, soft and low,
In lulling murmurs calmly flow;
But in the forest, Nature's face,
Stripped of its fresh, unsullied grace,
Is bright no more; she droops and grieves
For blighted flowers and shattered leaves;

131

Gone are the chiefs that towered above,
The leafy monarchs of the grove;
Tall forest-trees, in piles around
Of broken masses, strew the ground,
And mourners sorrowful and sere
The remnants of the wood appear.

“Amid the wreck, upon the strand,
Where massy live-oaks stooping stand,
Shading at once the sea and land,
Dashed on the shore, with crushing stroke,
Against the overhanging oak,
As on a rock, a vessel lies—
The stranger's boat of largest size.

“Around the hulk, with gloomy air
Of mingled terror and despair,
The Spaniards stand, and try to save
The fragments left them by the wave:
The bread, with water soaked and spoiled;
The shining armor stained and soiled;
The demon arms, whose sudden roar,
With lightning flashes, shook the shore.
Close by the boat, industrious bands,
With shining hatchets in their hands,
Striving their losses to repair,
By night and day are busied there.

“But in each Indian warrior's breast
All outward show of joy repressed,
With curious eye, in watchful mood,
Before the wreck the Uchees stood;

132

They freely offered larger aid,
The daily gift as early made,
And gave, more amply than before,
Of meat and maize the hoarded store.
More readily the hunters bring
Fat venison from the forest near,
The turkey-poult of early spring,
The haunches of the autumn bear;
And reassure, with ready art,
The anxious stranger's sinking heart.

“But, unrelenting in their wrath,
Matured their stern, avenging plans,
Where, in the wood that knows no path,
The Uchee town by Huspah stands,
Long councils now the warriors hold,
Gathered from every forest near,
With purifying forms enrolled,
And solemn fast, and rites of fear;
The war-drum breathes its sullen sound,
The war-seat glares with deeper red,
And in the gloomy forest round
New wailings mourn the unhappy dead:
They drink the Yopon's cup; secure
The braves from sinful act or thought,
Three days of fast and watch endure,
Till, won from Heaven the blessing sought,
Supported by Yohèwah's hand,
Who rules and guards the Indian land,

133

Successfully their files may tread
The avenging war-path for the dead;
And so the spirits lingering near,
Their wrongs redressed, may now attain
The spirit land, and gladly share
The pleasures that they seek in vain
While unavenged their wrongs remain.

“First of the band, the youthful brave
That from the boat, with desperate leap,
Plunging amid the boiling wave,
Had dared the terrors of the deep,
Rousing to rage each warrior's heart,
Takes with fierce joy the leader's part.
Near him his bow, with skillful care
New strung with sinews of the deer;
His quiver full of shafts, that shone
With polished heads of flint or bone;
And the curved club of seasoned oak,
That, as the lightning cleaves the tree,
Crushes the foeman with its stroke
Through bone and brain resistlessly.
Unmatched in skill, his arrows flew
From arm so strong, with aim so true,
The eagle towering in his height,
The mountain monster's grizzly might,
Were quelled and tamed; and through and through
Passing they pierced the bison's flank,
Till, buried there, the feather drank
The cloven heart's deep crimson hue.

134

“He stood before the warriors there
With head erect and flashing eye,
And stamping foot and battle cry,
That rang and echoed far and near:
‘They come,’ he cried, ‘the stranger band
Of robbers, to the Uchee land,
With fraud and violence once more,
With hands still reeking with the gore
Of friends, to murder as before.
Accursed the day when first they came!
In the dark wood, when winds are high,
When storm-clouds fill the blackened sky,
I hear all night the sorrowing cry
Of the unburied dead; they blame
Our tardy wrath, and bid us go
Like war-hawks on the hated foe,
Their hearts of crime to rend and tear;
They call for blood, the scalp, the groan,
The cries of battle, that alone
Are grateful to the spirit's ear.
I hear the eagle's scream for blood,
I see the vulture's spreading wing—
On to the battle! like the flood
Of mountain streams in early spring.
Theirs be the vengeance that they ask,
The last repose our brothers claim,
And yours the fierce avenger's task,
The battle joy and warrior's fame.’

“Up from their seats the council sprung,
The war-hoop through the forest rung,

135

With gesture fierce, and frantic yell,
Sachem, and brave, and cacique tell
Their warlike deeds; prepared to steal
Like panthers through the forest shade,
And on the hated Spaniard deal
Fit vengeance for the tribe betrayed.
The band is formed, the pledge is made,
The war-paint on the warrior laid,
And to the wood in files they go,
Ambushed to wait the coming foe.

“Gray-headed chiefs and sachems old,
High festival by Huspah hold;
On war resolved, they still devise
The scheme of blood in peaceful guise;
To strike, with unresisted blow
And surer aim, the crafty foe,
Old caciques hasten to invite
The strangers to the festive rite;
Fearless they yield; on rapine bent,
With eager step the Spaniards went,
With grasping hand and cruel heart,
Prepared to play the robber's part,
Heedless alike of secret feud
Or bold attack from tribes so rude;
Scorning their strength or warrior craft,
Their naked limbs and pointless shaft,
At danger's thought the Spaniard laughed.

“Through shaded trails by hunter traced,
In shining arms the strangers haste,

136

By paths that arching branches cross,
Where the pine towers, the live-oak spreads,
And from its limbs the long gray moss
Strikes, as they pass, their crested heads,
While something ever strange and new,
Of flower or plant, attracts their view:
The climbing vines, that overhead,
With trumpet-flowers of crimson, spread;
The trees of unknown leaf; the birds
Of various plume; the deer in herds,
That, bounding past the narrow way,
In careless freedom seemed to play;
With active foot and peering eyes,
From tree to tree the squirrel flies;
The turkey flaps his clumsy wings,
Beneath their feet the partridge springs;
And high above, where lightly float
White, rounded clouds, distinct and clear
Is heard at times the falcon's note,
As, stooping now again to rise
With moveless pinions to the skies,
His sharp wing cleaves the yielding air

“Beneath the hamlet's ample oak
The feast is spread, the welcome spoke;
Attendant priests of solemn mien,
And groups of chiefs and braves are seen
In hunting-shirts, with fringes dressed,
Of skins prepared with practiced care,
And on the head—a grinning crest—
The panther's glittering teeth appear;

137

Or, proudly on the brow displayed,
With the swan's wing of snowy white,
The eagle's plume of darker shade,
And hawk's long, pointed wings unite;
And claws of black or grizzly bear,
With wampum strings, the warrior's pride,
Mark the proud chief that knows no fear,
The chief whose hand and counsel guide
The fortunes of the tribe, and shield
Its honor in the battle-field.

“With dignity and quiet grace,
They press the stranger to his place
At the full board, with dainties spread,
From distant plain or stream supplied,
From inland lake or ocean side,
By Nature's endless bounty bred:
The clam and conch—a savory stew,
The fish of gold or silver hue,
Game from the swamp or forest near,
The bearded bird, the antlered deer,
And hump or haunch, a nobler cheer,
Of rarer buffalo and bear;
With cakes and bread of yellow maize,
Dressed in a hundred different ways,
Each worthy of the Spaniard's praise.

“By hunger urged, the strangers share
The ample board in careless mood,
And feasting, look with scornful air
On hunter host and forest food,
While ambushed on their footsteps wait
The terrors of approaching fate,

138

And from the watchful thicket near
Avenging eyes already glare,
With glance to freeze the heart with fear.

“The feast is done; a joyous throng
Close the bright day with sport and song;
The younger braves and maidens meet,
And to the drum and rattle beat
The ground with light, untiring feet;
With hearts of fire, and flashing eyes,
In the war-dance the warriors rise,
The club is hurled, the hatchet flies,
And fiercely round is heard the knell
The Indian warrior loves so well,
When, to the heart the arrow sped,
The knee upon the prostrate dead,
He tears the scalp-lock from the head.

“In the rough game that boasts the charm
Of battle, rival warriors strive,
With dexterous stroke and vigorous arm,
Beyond the adverse stake to drive
The flying ball; from either bound,
With blow on blow, it ceaseless flies,
And falling now, again to rise,
Seems never once to touch the ground.

“In crafty thought, the Spaniards note
The brawny limbs, the spirit bold,
And in their hearts dark visions float
Of kidnapped slaves and gathered gold;
Not poor and puny natures these,
Like the weak tribes of Southern seas,

139

That, torn from light, and air, and sky,
Like child or squaw, with moan and cry,
In feeble thousands daily die,
But strong and brave in limb and heart,
To do and bear the toiler's part.

“The shadows deepen through the wood,
Cold fogs from sea at sunset rise,
And, stealing on by land and flood,
Make one gray mass of earth and skies;
Fast as they glide, on stream and shore,
Point after point is seen no more;
Strange forest noises strike the ear;
Around the fires of blazing pine,
Through the dark wood that nightly shine
Before the wigwam doors, appear
A thousand flitting hosts, that scorch
Their rash wings in the dazzling torch;
Wayward and glittering in its flight,
The fire-fly, now its light revealing,
And now the transient glow concealing,
Sparkles amid the shades of night,
And through the trees, in fitful gleams,
Of wandering mood, a spirit seems;
In deep morass, the croaking throats
Of frogs their dreary songs combine;
From dismal swamps, the solemn notes
Of owls in gloomy hootings join,
And heard around, the hamlet nigh,
Are fox's bark and panther's cry.

“But other sounds of awe and fear
Assail at last the listener's ear;

140

The ambush from the covert springs;
The war-hoop through the forest rings;
The stifled groan, the crushing blow,
The death-shriek of the hated foe
Burst on the ear; in vain they try,
With terror struck, to fight or fly,
They only wake to bleed and die;
Relentless in the deadly strife,
The tomahawk and flinty knife
Drink their vile blood; a few in vain
The refuge of the forest gain,
And idly labor to explore
A pathway to the distant shore;
The hunter's eye, with morning light,
Tracks in the wood the craven's flight;
Vainly the foe for shelter creep
Through tangled swamp and covert deep;
Vainly they shun the warrior's art,
The shaft-head cleaves the dastard's heart;
Not one escapes; on branches near
Of pine or oak their scalps are hung,
And scornfully, in places drear,
To vulture flocks their bodies flung.
In honor to the Indian dead,
Now to the happy valley passed,
Their wrongs and griefs avenged at last,
At the lodge door are duly spread,
To give their spirits new delight,
The bloody trophies of the fight,
Torn from the Spaniard's cloven head.

141

“With terror struck, to seek the Main
The chiefs of the remaining band
Spread to the winds their wings again,
Flying the fierce avenging land,
And, base and abject, never more
Have dared to seek Chicora's shore.”

The Indian warrior prepared for every enterprise with many rites, and was vigilant to prevent the young braves from indulging in excesses that would pollute them and forfeit the divine aid.

VII.

The prophet paused; a solemn awe
Hung on the hearts of young and old,
For in his troubled eye they saw
Some thought of terror yet untold;
He bowed his head in silence long,
In silence sat the listeners round,
While, moved with sorrow deep and strong,
He fixed his glances on the ground.

“Almost forgot in ancient tale,”
The chief resumed, “the grief, the fear,
We listen with an idle ear,
And, while the smiles of peace prevail,
Fearless of ill or peril near,
Trust that her joys shall never fail;
But in the dreams of solemn night,
When spirits meet our sharpened sight,
I twice have seen before asleep,
Here, by the great mysterious deep,
And, waking now, I see again,
On the dark wave, where yonder star
Shines brightest on the misty main,
Slow gliding hither from afar

142

The form of fear that once before
Brought terror to Chicora's shore;
I see the wings of snowy white,
The bearded chiefs, the shining knives,
The wreathing smoke, the flashing light;
Before my eyes the scene revives
Distinct and clear; the time is come
When the Great Spirit's hand no more
Shall keep from harm the Indian's home
And country as he kept of yore.
A people comes, of hardier frame,
Sedate and calm, but stern and bold,
Not like the Spanish band that came
With eager thirst alone for gold;
These seize the land, the woods, the fields,
With grasping hand, unsated heart,
And onward step, that never yields,
Nor stops, nor rests, while left a part
Of all the hapless Indian race
Has ever held; from every place,
From shore and isle, from hill and plain,
Their hamlets burned, their warriors slain,
Never to see their homes again,
The tribes shall go; a name the trace
Alone that to the careless eye
Shall tell where buried nations lie.”

'Twas morning; heavier billows rolled;
They lift on high a prouder head,
And curling onward, fold on fold,
Dashed on the beach more widely spread;

143

Fresh from its home, the ocean breeze
Plays in the tall palmetto grove
With driving sand and rustling trees—
The breeze that home-bound seamen love;
Assembled on the barren strand
In anxious groups, the Uchees stand;
Moved by the chief's prophetic strain,
They gaze with terror on the main;
When, far at sea and dimly seen,
Hanging the wave and sky between,
The spectre form of shining white,
Gleaming beneath the rising light,
With horror strikes their straining sight.

“They come! they come!” the cacique cries;
“'Tis vain to strive or hope—away!
A curse awaits the loiterer's stay;
Happiest the foot that farthest flies!
'Tis not with men alone you strive;
Yohèwah's power deserts you now,
To his strong hand submissive bow;
He gives, he takes; no strength can drive
These fierce invaders from their prey;
Stronger their bold, resistless sway
Shall grow with each returning day,
And never shall the tribes regain
Their homes by the resounding main.”

Where the swift boats securely lie,
The hearts of all with sorrow sore,
They turn their hurried steps, and fly
Far from the billow-beaten shore;

144

And never since has Indian trod
The myrtle grove, the beach of sand,
The flowery banks, the grassy sod,
The bright isles of his native land;
And never since has Indian maid
The sea-shells gathered as before,
Nor in the tall palmetto shade
Sat listening to the ocean's roar;
Nor where the dwarf palmettos grow,
With saw-like leaf to cut and tear,
Has arrow shot from Indian bow
Stretched on the sand the bounding deer;
Tossed now amid the curling surge
The nets of other races sweep
The scaly shoals, and others urge
The light canoe along the deep;
And children now, with eyes of blue,
With curling locks where sunbeams play,
Of softer smile and fairer hue,
On the broad beach are wont to stray,
And gather all the wondrous things,
The gifts and toys of winds and waves,
That, tempest-tossed, the ocean brings
Up from his dark mysterious caves.

Children of that victorious race,
In toil and peril undismayed,
Ever in honor's foremost place,
Whose red-cross banner is displayed,
Whose strains of martial music meet,
From burning line to freezing pole,
The morning's purple light, and greet
The circling sun with ceaseless roll;

145

But stronger than his ocean sires,
With freer arm, with bolder aim,
With energy that never tires,
Untrammeled, in the paths of fame,
By ties of class that ever mar
The noblest cause in peace or war;
That waste upon an empty name
The leader's place in every field,
And to some noble driveler yield
The part that loftier spirits claim;
Apart, alone, with growing power,
The offspring plumes his eagle wing,
And patiently awaits the hour
That hastening years shall surely bring,
When to his proud unequaled height
He speeds his unresisted flight.

147

THE POET'S REWARD.

“Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward; it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude; it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and the beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me.”—

Coleridge.

O Spirit of Song! thy voice can soothe and cheer
In every ill that preys on human life;
When Friendship's altered face grows cold and drear;
When faithless love is lost in doubt and strife;
In sickness and in age, with sorrows rife
When fallen on evil days, as Milton fell,
And evil tongues, in peril, blind and poor;
As Danté dwelt, in exile forced to dwell;
Wandering, as Homer went, from door to door;
Like Leyden, dying on a foreign shore,
Or Byron; mourning Reason's partial blight,
Like gentle Cowper—to the poet's heart,
Visions of beauty, and the life and light
Of hope, and love, and joy, thy melodies impart.

University of Virginia Library

TO JAMES L. PETIGRU, LL.D.

CHICORA.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

THE POET'S REWARD.