 | Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative |  |
THE LAST FIELDS OF THE BILOXI;
A TRADITION OF LOUISIANA.
The Bay of Pascagoula is a lovely and retired spot, lying at nearly equal travelling distances between the cities of Mobile and New Orleans. It has long been famous among persons of taste in those cities for its quiet beauties; but more so on account of a very singular and sweet superstition which pertains to it. A remarkable, and most spiritual kind of music, is heard above and around its waters, from which it is supposed to issue. The sound is fitful, occurring by day and night, at all hours, sometimes with more or less strength and fulness, but always very sweet and touching in its strains. Some compare it to the wind-harp, which, indeed, it sometimes most wonderfully resembles. Others liken it to the humming of an insect of great and curious powers. The Indian tradition explanatory of this music,— which no philosophical speculation has yet ventured to disturb,—is one of a beauty not often surpassed. The story goes that the whole Southwest was once controlled, and in the possession of a people called the Biloxi; that these people had attained a very high, if not a perfect civilization—that they were versed in various arts, profound lovers of music, and were finally enervated by the arts which they possessed. They were overrun and conquered by the fiercer tribes coming from the West. They made a last stand on the borders of the sea, by Pascagoula, when driven from all other positions. Here they erected a fortress, the ruins of which are still said to be seen; though the work so described as theirs was probably erected by some of the roving bands of Spanish and French who first brought European civilization into the country. The last struggles of the Biloxi were protracted, as became the efforts of a brave nation fighting for life and liberty. But they fought in vain. Famine came in to the assistance of their enemies, and unconditional submission or death were the only alternatives. They chose the last; and men, women, and children proceeded to the sacrifice —which was as solemn, and perhaps more touching, than that of the citizens of Numantia under like circumstances. Throwing open the gates of their fortress, at a moment when the assailants were withdrawn, they marched down to the waters of the bay, singing their last song of death and defiance. With unshaken resolution they pressed forward until the waters finally engulfed them all. None survived. The strange spiritual music of the Bay of Pascagoula is said to be the haunting echo of that last melancholy strain. Such is one of the traditions respecting this mysterious music; and the one which we most prefer. Another legend is agreeably reported by Mr. Gayarré, in his late work on the picturesque and romantic in the history of Louisiana. It is due to the reader that he should be put in possession of this other version of the story. Gayarré describes the music as occurring mostly at the mouth of the Pascagoula River, and as seeming to float upon the waters, particularly in a calm moonlight. “It seems to issue from caverns or grottoes in the bed of the river, and sometimes oozes up through the water, under the very keel of the boat which contains the inquisitive traveller, whose ear it strikes as the distant concert of a thousand æolian harps. On the banks of the river, close by the spot where the music is heard, tradition says there existed a tribe different in color and in other peculiarities from the rest of the Indians. Their ancestors had originally emerged from the sea, where they were born, and were of a light complexion. They were a gentle, gay, inoffensive race, living chiefly on oysters and fish, and they passed their time in festivals and rejoicings. They had a temple in which they adored a mermaid. Every night when the moon was visible, they gathered round the beautifully carved figure of the mermaid, and with instruments of strange shape, worshipped that idol with such soul-stirring music as had never before blessed human ears.
“One day, a short time after the destruction of Mauvila or Mobile, in 1539, by Soto and his companions, there appeared among them a white man, with a long gray beard, flowing garments, and a large cross in his right hand. He drew from his bosom a book, which he kissed reverentially, and he began to explain to them what was contained in that sacred little casket. Tradition does not say how he came suddenly to acquire the language of those people when he attempted to communicate to them the solemn truths of the Gospel. It must have been by the operation of that faith which, we are authoritatively told, will remove mountains. Be it as it may, the holy man, in the course of a few months, was proceeding with much success in his pious undertaking, and the work of conversion was going on bravely, when his purposes were defeated by an awful prodigy.
“One night, when the moon at her zenith poured on heaven and earth, with more profusion than usual, a flood of light angelic, at the solemn hour of twelve, when all in nature was repose and silence, there came, on a sudden, a rushing on the surface of the river, as if the still air had been flapped into a whirlwind by myriads of invisible wings sweeping onward. The water seemed to be seized with convulsive fury; uttering a deep groan, it rolled several times from one bank to the other with rapid oscillations, and then gathered itself up into a towering column of foaming waves, on the top of which stood a mermaid, looking with magnetic eyes that could draw almost every thing to her, and singing with a voice which fascinated into madness. The Indians and the priest, their new guest, rushed to the bank of the river to contemplate this supernatural spectacle. When she saw them, the mermaid tuned her tones into still more bewitching melody, and kept chanting a sort of mystic song, with this often-repeated ditty:—
‘Come to me, come to me, children of the sea,Neither bell, book, nor cross, shall win ye from your queen.’
“The Indians listened with growing ecstasy, and one of them plunged into the river, to rise no more. The rest, men, women, and children, followed in quick succession, moved, as it were, with the same irresistable impulse. When the last of the race disappeared, a wild laugh of exultation was heard; down returned the river to its bed with the roar of a cataract, and the whole scene seemed to have been but a dream. Ever since that time is heard occasionally the distant music which has excited so much attention and investigation. The other Indian tribes of the neighborhood have always thought that it was their musical brethren, who still keep up their revels at the bottom of the river, in the palace of the mermaid. Tradition further relates that the poor priest died in an agony of grief, and that he attributed this awful event, and victory of the powers of darkness, to his not having been in a perfect state of grace when he attempted the conversion of those infidels. It is believed, also, that he said on his death-bed, that those deluded pagan souls would be redeemed from their bondage and sent to the kingdom of heaven, if, on a Christmas night, at twelve of the clock, when the moon shall happen to be at her meridian, a priest should dare to come alone to that musical spot, in a boat propelled by himself, and should drop a crucifix into the water. But, alas! if this be ever done, neither the holy man nor the boat are to be seen again by mortal eyes. So far, the attempt has not been made; skeptic minds have sneered, but no one has been found bold enough to try the experiment.”
The reader has now both the leading traditions before him, and can choose between them. It will be seen, that, in the narrative which follows, I prefer the former version of the legend. The Poet is supposed to be a spectator of the scene,—one greatly ravished with the quiet and sweet beauty of the landscape, and beguiled by it into a long train of dreamy speculations, which insensibly conduct him to the state of mind when he shall be most susceptible to spiritual influences. It is then that he is suddenly made aware of the awakening murmurs of the mysterious music. The reflections which precede the revelation are designed as a natural prelude to the strain.
I.
Beautiful spread these waters 'neath mine eye,Glassy and bright, with myrtles overhung;
Blue stretch the heavens above them—in their depths,
Far down reflected—arch more beautiful,
Seen through the mellowing medium of the wave,
Than in its native empire,—spann'd above,
Blazing, all cloudless, with the noonday star.
I wander by the islets near the sea,
That, from the Mexique bay, a tribute deep,
Rolls in on Pascagoula. There it sinks,
And sleeps with faintest murmurs; or, with strife
Brought from more turbulent regions, still bears on,
With threatening crest, and lips of whitening foam,
To battle with Biloxi. Short the strife!
Feebler at each recoil, its languid waves
Fling themselves, listless, on the yellow sands,
With a sweet chiding, as of grief that moans,
Oblivious not in slumber, of the strife,
That slumber still subdues. A dream of peace
Succeeds, and all her images arise,
To hallow the fair picture. Ocean sleeps
Lock'd in by earth's embrace. Her islets stand
Gray sentinels, that guard her waste domain,
And, from their watch-towers station'd by the deep,
Numberless, wild, in their blue armor clad,
Forever bent on spoil. A sweet repose
Hangs o'er the groves, and on the sloping shore
And the far ocean. Not a murmur chides
The sacred silence. From the lone lagoon,
The patriarch of the ancient pelican,
Leads forth his train; though not with plashy wing
Break they the glassy stream, whose buoyant wave
Maintains each breast, and still reflects each form,
Without a riple on its face to mar
The perfect image. Gliding thus, they steer
To islands of green rushes, where they hide
In sports most human;—in white glimpses seen,—
Or by the light tops of the reeds that stoop,
Divided in the press of struggling forms.
But rapture hath a reign as short as peace—
The wild fowls' sports are ended. They repose
By the still marge of lakes, that, in the embrace
Of groves of cane and myrtle, steal away,
And crouch in sleep secure; while through the Gulf
Rolls the black hurricane. The summer noon
Prevails. A universal hush
Absorbs the drowsy hours, and Nature droops
With sweetness; as upon the listless eyes
Of beauty, steal the images of dreams,
Made up of star-crown'd hopes and truest loves,
And joy's own purple prospects. The still air
Falters with perfume of delicious fruits;—
The orange flings its fragrance to the seas,
Wooing the zephyr thence; and lo! he comes
Fresh from the toiling conflict with the deep,
Upon whose breast, subduing and subdued,
He snatches fitful rest. The glassy wave,
Into complaining ripples. Now, his breath
Sweeps the rush islands, while the tall reed stoops
Its feathery crest to ocean. The gray sands,
Whirl'd suddenly beneath his arrowy tread,
Pursue his flight in vain;—and now he glides
Over the sacred bay, whose clear serene
Is whimpled by his wing. Anon, he stirs
The orange blossoms,—drinks full surfeit thence,
And sleeps among their leaves.
II.
I lay me downIn the sweet keeping of the wilderness,
Listless and blest as he! No wild to me,
Though lonely, all the silent groves and streams,
That slumber in my glance. For I have been
A wanderer, and denied all human ties:—
I made my friends among the hills and streams
Least loved or sought by man. To me, they wear
Aspects of love and kindness. Voices call,
And fair hands beckon me from alleys green,
Amidst a world of shadow;—solitudes
That woo the thoughtful footstep, and persuade
To realms of pensive silence,—beautiful groves,
Sad only, as their beauty blooms unsought.
III.
These win me from my path. I turn aside;My heart drinks in the sweetness of the scene
I gaze on;—and how lovelier grows the spot,
To him who comes in love! I bow my head—
Where still she holds her matchless sov'reignty—
To all endowing Nature. Here she sits
And high umbrageous forest. At her feet,
Broad lakes spread forth their bosoms to the skies,
Whose beauties still they bear. Sweet fountains swell
From loneliest depths, among the hidden dells,
That, crouching 'neath the sway of sullen hills,
Yet send their crystal sorrows down the stream,
In secret channels; that the world may seek,
And free them from their darksome prison-place.
Tree, flower, and leaf, consorting with her mood,
Impress their calm on mine. I lay me down,
Within her solemn temple. Altars rise
About me, of green turf; and tufted beds,
Of grassy and blue flowers, beneath my head,
Pillow it gently. Mightiest subjects stand
Around me, grouped, and bending still, to serve—
Thick-bearded giants, that spread wide their arms,
And shield me from the burning shafts of noon.
IV.
Now, sweeter than the soft recorder's voice,Or lute of ravishing syren, in mine ear,
This gentle diapason of the woods—
This sacred concert,—airs with bending pines,
Whose murmurs melt to one, and part again
With new accords,—with now a catch of song,
From bird that starts and sleeps. The fancy glows
In spiritual converse, as I dream
Of the old fated men of these sweet plains,—
Departed—all their dwelling-places waste,
And their wild gods grown powerless!
Powerless?—No!
They have a spell for fancy, and a charm
To waken echoes in the dreaming heart;
Extort unfailing homage. For the Past,
They live, and live forever! That which speaks
For the sole moral of the faded race,
Dies not when it hath perished. Song will speak,—
Tradition, and the venerable groves,
With mounds, and fragments of old implements,
Even for the heathen;—as in temples, books,
Old columns, and the echoes of deep strains
From Phœbus-smitten minstrels, still survive
The proofs of mightier nations—godlike proofs,
That challenge human toil, the tooth of time,
And speak when he is voiceless. These connect
Races which mingle not; whose separate eyes—
By years and ocean separate—never saw
Their mutual aspects; yet, by sympathies,
Born of like trials, strifes, and mightiest deeds,
Yearn for communion,—yearn to see and love;
And when the earthquake threatens, bear, in flight,
Each glorious token of the transmitted race.
V.
Thus lives the savage god. Here, still, he rovesAmong his hills made consecrate. Here, still,—
By this broad glassy lake, among these groves
Of yellow fruits and fragrance,—o'er yon isles,
The limit of his reign,—his old gray eye
Still ranges, as if watchful of the trust
His sway no more may compass.
—Yet, no more
Gather the simple tribes that bow'd the knee,
In love, or deprecation of his wrath;—
No more from plain to hill-top glows the pile
Fired in his sacrifice;—and, to glad his ear,
A wild and antique song of faith and fear,
No more! no more!
VI.
—'Tis sure a dream that stirsThese sounds within my soul; or, do I hear
A swell of song,—sweet, sad, upon mine ear,
That, like a wayward chant from out the sea,
Rises and floats along the yellow sands!
A note most like the wind-harp, hung in trees
Where the coy zephyr harbors. Still it comes,
In more elaborate windings; with a tone
Most human, and a fitfulness of sound
That speaks for various woes, as if it link'd
The deep, despairing, still defying cry,
From man in his last struggle,—with the shriek
Of passionate woman, not afraid to die,
Though pleading still for pity,—and the scream
Of childhood, conscious only of the woes
It feels not, but beholds in those who feel,
Unutterable still! A long-drawn plaint,
It swells and soars, until the difficult breath
Fails me;—I gasp;—I may not follow it
With auditory sense! It glows—it spreads—
'Till the whole living atmosphere is flush
With the strange harmony; and now it sinks,
Sudden, but not extinguished! A faint tone
Survives, in quivering murmurs, that awhile
Tremble like life within the flickering pulse
Of the consumptive. Losing it, we hush
Our breathing; and suspend the struggling sense,
Whose utterance mars its own; and still we hear
Its mellow and lone cadences, that float,
Superior rise, of winds and waving trees!
VII.
It is a sweet tradition of these shores,Told by the Choctaw, that, when ages gone,
His savage sire descended from the west,
A dark and desperate hunter,—all these woods,
From the rich valleys where the Missouri bounds,
To mix his turbid waters with the streams
Of him, the Sire of Waters, —to the blue hills
Of Apalachia,—dwelt a numerous race,
Named “The Biloxi.” Towns and villages,
Cities and colleges, and various arts,
Declared their vast antiquity. They were proud—
More proud than all the living tribes of men;
Wiser, and versed in many sciences;
And, from their towers of earth, that sought the skies,
In emulous mountain-stretches, watch'd the stars,
In nightly contemplation. With a skill
Wondrous, by other tribes unmatchable,
They rear'd high temples, which they fill'd with forms
Of love and beauty. In their thousand homes,
Joy was a living presence. There they danced
At evening; while the mellow song went forth,
Married to fitting strains, from instruments
Of curious form, but fill'd with strangest power,
That, when the savage hearken'd, half subdued
His bloody thirst, and made the reptile's fang
Forget his venomous office. By these arts
Were they at last betray'd. They soon forgot
The vigorous toils of manhood, and grew weak,
Incapable of arms. Voluptuous joys,
The strength of their young people, till they grew,
Like the rank grass upon the bearded plain,
Fit for the fire and scythe.
VIII.
—The Choctaw ChiefLook'd, from his dusky hills, upon their vales,
Exulting. When he heard their songs of love,
That floated upward on the perfumed air,
And saw, below, their loose, effeminate forms
Link'd in voluptuous dance,—he shouted loud
His scornful satisfaction; while he bade
His warriors nigh, to look upon their homes,
And mark their easy victims. They, below,
By happiness made deaf and arrogant,
Heard not the mighty discord, which, above,
Mock'd their soft harmonies. Their dream went on;
The midnight dance and revel; the sweet song
Of love and gold-eyed fancy; and the prayer,
Unbroken, of true genius, in his cell,
Toiling, with pen or pencil, to prepare
His triumph for the adoring eyes of day!
IX.
But with day came the conflict. The fierce tribes,With hellish shout, that shook the affrighted walls
Till the high temples quaked, rush'd down the vale,
Smiting with heavy mace; or, from above,
Shooting their poison'd arrows at each mark,
Unerring. Though surprised, the Biloxi fought
Fiercely, and with an ardency of soul
Superior to their strength. The savage press'd
More resolute when baffled. Day by day,
Despoil'd by the barbarian. Thousands fell
In conflict; yet the thousands that remain'd
Breathed nothing but defiance. With each loss,
Rose a new spirit in their hopeless breasts,
That warm'd them with fresh courage; and they swore
A terrible oath, with link'd hands, each in each,
And all, to their old deities, to yield
Life first, and freedom never! Well they kept
Their sacramental pledges. They could die,
But could not conquer. Yielding sullenly
Each foothold, they departed from the towns
They could no more maintain; and, fighting, fled;
Till from the hills of Memphis—from the springs
Of Loosahatchie—from the golden ridge,
Where the gay streams of Noxabee arise,—
Contented captives that complain not oft
Against the rocks, that, from the western streams,
Bar their free passage—gradual still they fled—
Still turning, still at bay, and battling oft
The dread pursuer.
X.
—To this spot they came—They pitch'd their tents where Pascagoula flows,
Through shallows of gray shells, and finds its way
To the embraces of the purple Gulf.
“Here!” said the Prince—his subjects gather'd round—
“Make the last stand! The land beneath our feet
Slips rapidly, and farther flight is none,
Save to the ocean. We must stand and die!”
XI.
Sad were their hearts, but fearless. Not a lipSpoke for submission. Soul and arm were firm;
Their earthen ramparts. On the narrow walls
Of their rude fortresss, in that perilous hour,
Ranged their few champions. To the hills, their eyes
Turn'd ever, till the savage rose in sight.
Then took they up their weapons. Flight no more
Was in their choice; but, in its place, there came,
From hopelessness, resolve—and such resolve,
As makes man terrible as fate. They stood,
Silent, with lips compress'd. No answering shout
Admonish'd the invader of the strength
Thus newly found; and down his warriors rush'd,
As to an easy conquest. But they shrunk,—
And wonder'd whence should come the singular might,
So sudden, of a race so feeble late!
Days, weeks, and months, and the Biloxi fought,
Invincible. Their narrow boundary grew
More strong and powerful, in the invader's eyes,
Than had been their sole empire. Spring, at length,
Put on her flowers. Green leaves and blossoming fruits
Declared for mercy; but the barbarian tribes,
Strengthen'd by fiercer thousands from the west,
Maintain'd the leaguer. Rescue there was none;
Despair had no more strength, for famine sapp'd
The hearts of the Biloxi.
XII.
One bright noonBeheld them met in council—women and men;
The mother newly made, with the young babe,
Unconscious, striving at her bloodless breasts;—
For all are equal in the hour of woe,
And all are heard, or none!—
It needed not
They saw it in the tottering march—the face,
Pinch'd by lean famine;—the imperfect speech,
That falter'd with the syllable prolong'd;—
The hollow eyes from which a spiritual glare
Shot out like death. They saw it in all sights,
And sounds, that fate, in that protracted term
Of struggle and endurance, still vouchsafed;—
And there was silence—a long, dreary pause
Broken by feminine sobs. Then spoke the Prince,
Last of a line of kings!—
—“Shall we submit
To bonds and probable torture, or go forth,
Made free by death?”
Brief silence follow'd then:—
In that brief silence, memories of years,
And ages, crowded thick. Years of delight—
Ages of national fame! They thought of all
The grace of their old homes,—the charm, the song,
Pure rights and soothing offices,—and pride,
Made household, by the trophies, richly strown,
Through court and chamber, of creative art;—
All lost!—and then the probable doom of bonds,—
The only slavery,—the superior race
Bow'd to the base and barbarous!—and one voice
Proclaim'd the unanimous will of all—to die!
XIII.
That eve, while yet within the western heavens,Linger'd the rosy sunset—while the waves
Lay calm before them in the crystal bay,
And the soft winds were sleeping—and a smile,
As of unbroken peace and happiness,
Mantled the glittering forest green, and far,
That shone like precious gems;—the destined race
Threw wide their fortress gate. Thence went they forth
In sad procession. At their head, the Prince,
Who still had led their fortunes;—then, the chiefs,
And soldiers—few, but fearless;—the old men—
Patriarchs, who still remain'd,—memorials
Of the more fortunate past—and, last of all,
The women and the children. 'Twas an hour,
When Nature craved a respite from her toils;
And, from the strife withdrawn, the savage foe
Were distant, in their woodland tents retired.
These started with strange wonder to behold
The solemn march, unwitting of its end
And glorious aim; nor strove they to disturb
The rights which they divined not. On they went,
That ancient nation. Weapons bore they none;
But with hands cross'd upon their fearless hearts,
The warriors led the way. The matron clung
To her son's arm, that yielded no support.
The infant, hush'd upon its mother's breast,
Was sleeping; but the mother's sobs were still
Audible with her song;—and, with her song,
Rose that of thousands, mingling in one strain!
The art which in their happier days had been
Most loved among them, in spontaneous voice,
Unsummon'd , pour'd itself upon the air,
As, slowly, but with steps unfaltering still,
March'd the pale band, self-destined to the deep!
Never had Ocean in his balmiest hours,
Look'd less like death—less terrible, less wild!
An infant's slumber had not been more free
From all commotion. Beautiful and bright,
In the declining sunset, lay the scene
Like the fair prospect, was the united song,—
That epicedium o'er a nation's fate,
Self-chanted, which went with them to the waves,
And still survives them—breathing, from their graves,
The story of their empire,—of its fame,—
Its fall, and their devoted faith that knew
No life unbless'd with freedom. Sweetest strain!—
Once more it rises into sounds, that grow
Human in strength; and now, it floats away,
Subdued and sinking, as in that sad hour
When its last breathings from the warrior's throat
Stopp'd suddenly; and through the desolate air
Went a more desolate hush that told the rest!
| Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative | |