University of Virginia Library

CANTO III.
THE BATTLES OF TALLASATCHES AND TALLADEGA.

[Scene. A Cave on the Island. The king of the Hillabees, his sister and daughter. Ethwald and Oscar. Others in attendance. Time, evening.]
The fire shone bright on rift and wall,
Within Alhalla's cavern-hall;
And oft had that lone maid, his pride,
With splinter'd pine the flame supplied,
And kindly spread, with ready zeal,
The wholesome, frugal cottage meal:
The ruddy haunch, the shreded moose,
With vermil trout, and firland grouse,
And sapid rice, and many a root,
And many a tiny forest-fruit;
And oft, in birchen vase, supplied
The limpid fountain's crystal tide,
With such obeisance kind and brief,
As well may suit an Indian chief.
Nor wanting she—whose age and art
Supplied the maid—a mother's part.
And now that chieftain, proud and high,
Glanced round a wild, unsettled eye,
As if that scanning glance should say,
Up, strangers, and pursue your way!
This Oscar marked with ready art,
And thus express'd his glowing heart.

OSCAR.
Thanks were but light and all too weak,
Hearts mantling o'er, like ours, to speak,
But we shall hold and carry hence,
Of thee and thine, so high a sense,
Thy courtesy—thy life—thy lot,
As but with life can be forgot.
One only wish—one strong desire,
Still draws us to thy cavern-fire,
And stays th' intent we felt the while,
To quit this ocean-cinctured isle.
'Tis more to know—to hear—to see,
Of one so noble, poor, and free,
So proud—unfortunate as thee.
Deign, then, oh chief!—for trust you may,
If aught that man can feel or say
Can give assurance of our faith,
To hold thee quit of ill or scaith.
Deign, then, thy latent woes to tell,
The rush and struggle, rout and yell,
The scenes of care, or deeds of strife,
That mark thy onward course through life,
And weighing down with double weight,
Of age and care that ne'er abate,
Have sear'd thy cheeks, and sear'd thy heart,
And made thee, exile! what thou art.
So when we reach our native vales,
Dear land where home-bred bliss prevails!
With joy—with pride we may relate
A good man's fame, a brave man's fate.

ALHALLA.
Man of prayer—for I ween,
By thy words, and dress, and mien,
Such thou art,—words, words are vain
To cure my woes, or soothe my pain.
Little boots it thee, to know
Whence I came or whence I go.
Hard my lot—nor would I e'er
Draw afresh the scalding tear,
Tear the wound that has been heal'd,
Or renew the bloody field;
And if e'en my tongue were prone
Thus to dwell on actions done,
Could I? 'twere reliance base,
E'er again to trust thy race.

OSCAR.
Deem not, stoic of the wood,
Harshly thus of Christian blood;
Warm, and pure, and kind it flows,
For the suff'ring Indian's woes,
Proudly beats and nobly swells,
Where bland pity's voice impels,
Honor points, or justice draws—
Justice! guide of Christian laws!
There are bosoms burning high,
Souls of bland philanthropy!
Hearts and hands and means and space
That would joy to serve thy race,
Joy to see thee happier here,
Happier in another sphere,
And e'en life itself would give,
That the Indian's soul should live.
And were none to teach or pray,
Point or lead the heavenly way,
Soothe the lot so roughly cast,
Or avert fate's angry blast—
Were there not in all the land,
One kind heart with love so bland,
Aim so noble, care divine,
Trust, lone recluse, trust to mine!
Mine the purpose, mine the will,
Heaven's kind message to reveal,
Teach the ever-glorious Son,
Mercies promised, doing, done!
Aid the weak, persuade the wise,
And lead to worlds beyond the skies.

ALHALLA.
Man of wisdom, on mine ear
Dark thy holy truths appear,
And I would not, old and weak,
Novel rites or doctrines seek,
Or a path unknown pursue,
That my fathers never knew,
Though thou put the thorns aside,
And lead on, a zealous guide.
Ponder well this furrow'd face,
See in me a hunter race,
Rude in manners, poor in skill,
Wanting knowledge, wanting will,
Means and purpose, care and force,
To pursue the white man's course,
But not lacking means or power
That may suit the hunter's bower,
Brave the ills a man may brave,
And deserve an honored grave.
I would scorn the labor base
Of thy wonder-working race;
As my fathers lived, would I
Wish to live and wish to die,
Hold the precepts they have given,
Seek with them my final heaven;
Proper are thy gifts to thee,
Proper are my gifts to me;
Go thy way—my fervent cry
Is here undisturbed to die.

ETHWALD.
Yet when, beside the stormy wave,
The tall grass whistles o'er thy grave,
'Twere sweet, perhaps, for thee to know
Kind hearts remember thee below.
Thy glorious feats in earthly wars,
Thy name, thy honors, and thy scars.

OSCAR.
And when the good, by word or pen,
Spoke praises meet of gallant men,
Chief, hunter, warrior—hearts divine!
Who grace the manly Indian line,
'Twere grateful thy proud course to scan,
And say, thou wert the braver man.

ALHALLA.

OSCAR.
Sayest thou there was no mercy shown,
No prisoner saved in battle—none?

ALHALLA.
Little there was—I must be brief,
Yet would not play the knave or thief,
By robbing foeman, chief or youth,
Of one small tittle of the truth,
To save this wither'd trunk the ire
And rack of slow-consuming fire.
When erst this cloud obdurate rose,
Red with the wrath of many foes,
And men and steeds promiscuous slain,
Strewed Tallasatche's fatal plain,
The struggle o'er, compassion fair,
Perched on the standards floating there!
I, on that sanguinary day,
Mixed freely in the dubious fray,
And with my war-axe, lance and brand,
Fought with the foremost of my band.
These scars upon my arm and breast,
My valor on that day attest.
But vain was every warrior art,
By charge or war-whoop, club or dart;
The foeman pressing on our ground,
With horse and bayonet wall'd us round,
And with fierce courage bearing down,
Swept plain and covert, host and town,
And nine score warriors, whom I led,
Upon that day lay cold and dead.
But let me drop this strain of woe:
I told thee of the coming foe,
And he did come, in such array
As well foretold a stubborn day.
Few words I spoke to those who stood,
With ready arms, within that wood;
But, when I ceas'd, the battle cry
Rung long and loudly—strike or die!
Erst trampling horse, in armor bright,
Pricked to the front and wooed the fight,
With volley quick and furious tread
Essayed th' assault, and, wheeling, fled.
I forward sprang, and at one yell
A thousand warriors served me well,
And urging ball and feather'd dart,
Play'd hot and strong the warrior's part;
And once I drove the reeling ranks
Back on their chief—the chief outflanks,
Pours from behind his galling horse,
And opes the war with all his force.
Thick round my sides my bowmen lie—
They faint, they waver, and they fly;
Then streams afresh the battle gore
Wider and wider along the shore,
And those who fly but fly to feel
Th' avenging horsemen's angry steel.
And when the night closed on that plain,
To veil the dying and the slain,
Few, out of all my gallant band,
Had 'scaped the mark of ball or brand;
And death, of brave Muscogee men,
Had numbered fourteen score and ten.