 | THE LAST OF THE YEMASSEES. The book of my lady |  |
314
THE LAST OF THE YEMASSEES.
The Yemassees were a powerful nation of savages,
occupying, in the lower parts of the state of South
Carolina, a tract of country extending from Beaufort
on the sea coast. Incited to insurrection by Spanish
persuasion, they had laid a deep plan for the destruction
of the Carolinians, in which, with the cunning of
Philip, they had contrived to involve many of the independent
neighbouring tribes. Fortunately for the
whites, the design was discovered, and in the contest
which ensued, the Yemassees were completely exterminated
as a nation. The following lines refer to this
event, and the last survivor is here made to furnish the
record of their overthrow. That they were exterminated,
in that affair, is, however, very doubtful; and the
opinion generally entertained, is, that a number did
survive, and in the wildernesses of Georgia and Florida
find a shelter from their enemies. They have been
traced by some modern writers, indeed, to the vast
swamp, called the Ecfanoka of Georgia—a capacious
marsh, which occupies a large extent of country in the
lower regions of that state; on whose knolls and
islands, thousands of which rise up at every step in this
secluded shelter, they are represented as having taken
up their abode. One of these, according to Bartram,
315
They represent it as inhabited by a peculiar race of Indians,
whose women are incomparably beautiful. They
also tell you, that this terrestrial paradise has been
seen by some of their enterprising hunters, when in
pursuit of game, who, being lost in inextricable swamps
and bogs, and on the point of perishing, have been suddenly
relieved by beautiful women, who kindly gave
them fruits and provisions, and then, putting them on
their path, bade them fly, for that their men were very
fierce and cruel to strangers, and would certainly destory
them were they to encounter. These hunters
describe the settlement, of which they had a distant
view, on the elevated banks of an island or promontory
in a beautiful lake, but, in their endeavours to approach
which, they were involved in perpetual labyrinths, and
like enchanted land, it alternately appeared and disappeared
as they continued to advance. The young
warriors, on hearing this account, set out upon a journey
of discovery, but failed, in the thousand intricacies
of the swamp, which beset them on every side, to discover
the beautiful lake, the island, and the settlements.
Such is the tradition. It is thought, that some of this
may be true—that the Creek hunters may have lost
their way, and stumbling upon the place of retreat,
chosen by the few surviving Yemassees, were made to
believe a story of danger, told them by the women,
who thus represented their people, in order to discourage
any enterprise, on the part of the warlike Creeks,
for their discovery, which must have ended in their
further exile, or in their complete annihilation. Some
further use has been made of this tradition in the present
316
has been made to take place.
He fought his nation's foes 'til night
Had cast her mantle round,
Nor, in the stern, unequal fight,
Where freemen battled for their right,
Gave undisputed ground.
His followers fell before his face—
He stood—the last of all his race.
His brother—him that pride had named
The eagle of his land—
In hunt, as well as battle, famed,
Who once, the furious wolf had tamed,
And with unweaponed hand—
Himself the panther in the fight,
Who sought it with a fierce delight—
Before him fast expiring lay:—
And he—whose name had been
The signal, many a bloody day,
For long and well contested fray—
Known by his uncurb'd mien;
Were then a trophy, worth the toil,
Of young ambition, mad for spoil.
Yet who shall tread the thicket's brake,
And with undaunted heart,
Arouse the coil'd and glittering snake
With fearful fang, and eye awake,
Nor backward shuddering start?
There, coil'd as fate, the serpent lies,
And he, who first approaches, dies.
Thus, o'er his dying brother's brow,
The brave Sanuté bends—
Had cast her mantle round,
Nor, in the stern, unequal fight,
Where freemen battled for their right,
Gave undisputed ground.
His followers fell before his face—
He stood—the last of all his race.
His brother—him that pride had named
The eagle of his land—
In hunt, as well as battle, famed,
Who once, the furious wolf had tamed,
And with unweaponed hand—
Himself the panther in the fight,
Who sought it with a fierce delight—
Before him fast expiring lay:—
And he—whose name had been
The signal, many a bloody day,
For long and well contested fray—
Known by his uncurb'd mien;
Were then a trophy, worth the toil,
Of young ambition, mad for spoil.
Yet who shall tread the thicket's brake,
And with undaunted heart,
Arouse the coil'd and glittering snake
With fearful fang, and eye awake,
Nor backward shuddering start?
There, coil'd as fate, the serpent lies,
And he, who first approaches, dies.
Thus, o'er his dying brother's brow,
The brave Sanuté bends—
317
He wails his prostrate nation low,
Lamenting for his kindred now—
His people and his friends—
But, with a fearful burst of grief,
He mourns o'er all, that bleeding chief.
“And thou,” he sung in earnest train,
“Shalt seek the hunt no more—
Nor whet the battle knife again,
Nor strike the living, scalp the slain—
Thy battle fields are o'er.
Yet 'mong the western hills alone,
Thou hast not, all-untended, gone.
“Slain by thy self, full many a ghost
Thy journey must partake—
To waft thee to the happy coast,
The spoilers of our land, a host,
O'erspread the ocean lake—
And many a maiden there, for thee,
Shall make the sweet sagamité.
“And I have seen thee bend the bow,
And I have watch'd thee spring,
With gleaming knife upon the foe,
And far and fell the hatchet throw,—
As swallow, swift on wing,
Pursue the triumph with a flight,
Unbroken by the long day's fight.
“And, as becomes the Indian brave,
When, in the battle's strife,
O'erpower'd, he finds a bloody grave,
Thou didst not vainly seek to save
The last remains of life—
Content, if fortune could not give
Thy country freedom, not to live!
Lamenting for his kindred now—
His people and his friends—
But, with a fearful burst of grief,
He mourns o'er all, that bleeding chief.
“And thou,” he sung in earnest train,
“Shalt seek the hunt no more—
Nor whet the battle knife again,
Nor strike the living, scalp the slain—
Thy battle fields are o'er.
Yet 'mong the western hills alone,
Thou hast not, all-untended, gone.
“Slain by thy self, full many a ghost
Thy journey must partake—
To waft thee to the happy coast,
The spoilers of our land, a host,
O'erspread the ocean lake—
And many a maiden there, for thee,
Shall make the sweet sagamité.
“And I have seen thee bend the bow,
And I have watch'd thee spring,
With gleaming knife upon the foe,
And far and fell the hatchet throw,—
As swallow, swift on wing,
Pursue the triumph with a flight,
Unbroken by the long day's fight.
“And, as becomes the Indian brave,
When, in the battle's strife,
O'erpower'd, he finds a bloody grave,
Thou didst not vainly seek to save
The last remains of life—
Content, if fortune could not give
Thy country freedom, not to live!
318
“The hunter, when the day is done—
Must bark and dress the pine;
And that the wolf his rest may shun,
When the dark night comes stealing on,
Must bid the fire light shine,
But thou art happy now—I see,
Thy slain foes do this work for thee.
“Upon this bloody rock I stand,
And gaze with ling'ring eye—
Before me is my native land,
Now blazing with the fatal brand—
While round me, the last gallant band,
My fellow warriors, lie.
I may not stand and dwell alone,
When all are perish'd thus, and gone.
“The shaft is fitted to my bow,—
One shade my soul demands,
One gallant brave, one mighty foe,
To cross with me the river's flow,
And seek the happy lands.”
He speaks no more—the shaft is gone,
A plume is lost, a chief is down.
The rose the cry of rage below,
And up the dizzy height,
Burning for vengeance came the foe,
With meditated blast and blow,
Though late all faint with fight.—
With folded arms the warrior stands,
And gazes on the coming bands!
And will he tamely fall or fly,
Survivor—last of all his race?
Recreant, who does not dare to die,
When country, honour, liberty,
All bleed before his face—
Must bark and dress the pine;
And that the wolf his rest may shun,
When the dark night comes stealing on,
Must bid the fire light shine,
But thou art happy now—I see,
Thy slain foes do this work for thee.
“Upon this bloody rock I stand,
And gaze with ling'ring eye—
Before me is my native land,
Now blazing with the fatal brand—
While round me, the last gallant band,
My fellow warriors, lie.
I may not stand and dwell alone,
When all are perish'd thus, and gone.
“The shaft is fitted to my bow,—
One shade my soul demands,
One gallant brave, one mighty foe,
To cross with me the river's flow,
And seek the happy lands.”
He speaks no more—the shaft is gone,
A plume is lost, a chief is down.
The rose the cry of rage below,
And up the dizzy height,
Burning for vengeance came the foe,
With meditated blast and blow,
Though late all faint with fight.—
With folded arms the warrior stands,
And gazes on the coming bands!
And will he tamely fall or fly,
Survivor—last of all his race?
Recreant, who does not dare to die,
When country, honour, liberty,
All bleed before his face—
319
Within his grasp, the foremost foe
Goes with him o'er the mountain's brow.
And still by old Salutah's wave,
The boor, with certain hand,
Will point the Indian warrior's grave,
And still from old tradition save
That story of his land—
The fearful fight still known to fame,
And how adown the steeps they came.
Goes with him o'er the mountain's brow.
And still by old Salutah's wave,
The boor, with certain hand,
Will point the Indian warrior's grave,
And still from old tradition save
That story of his land—
The fearful fight still known to fame,
And how adown the steeps they came.
| THE LAST OF THE YEMASSEES. The book of my lady | |