 | Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems |  |
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NEAH-EMATHLAH.
He knew himself a villian—but he deemed
The rest no better than the thing he seemed:
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt.—
Byron's Corsair
The rest no better than the thing he seemed:
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt.—
Byron's Corsair
[_]
When Neah-Emathlah was captured, during the recent difficulties with the Creek Indians, the worrior-boy of his heart was also taken; when his son was brought into his presence bound, the old man was very much affected, and betrayed his regard for him—for it was supposed that they would both be shot—and requested that, whatever death he might die, he would fain that his son might live; and looking his enemies full in the face, he told them that he wished to raise his son to fight them, as he had fought old Hickory. They were both liberated and taken to Arkansas.
No, paleface! thou shalt expect the tears
That the father sheds for his dying son!
But the spring dries up after many years,
And, from these old eyes there shall fall not one!
I have heard thee say that my death was nigh!
That my tribe must fall!—that my son shall die!
I can only say, for my warrior-love,
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
That the father sheds for his dying son!
But the spring dries up after many years,
And, from these old eyes there shall fall not one!
I have heard thee say that my death was nigh!
That my tribe must fall!—that my son shall die!
I can only say, for my warrior-love,
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
The few short years that you rob from me,
Shall pass like the winds on the raging floods!
But the sudden fall of my son shall be
As the mighty oak in the silent woods!
And the tears shall fall for his dearest sake,
As the frightened dew when the branches shake
By the sudden sound of my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
Shall pass like the winds on the raging floods!
But the sudden fall of my son shall be
As the mighty oak in the silent woods!
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As the frightened dew when the branches shake
By the sudden sound of my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
The poplar stands by the river tall,
But the giant oak makes the greatest sound;
And the aged tree may expect to fall
When his branches shed all their leaves around!
But the sound shall come from the rolling seas,
And the winds shall moan through the forest trees;
And the voice shall say, for my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
But the giant oak makes the greatest sound;
And the aged tree may expect to fall
When his branches shed all their leaves around!
But the sound shall come from the rolling seas,
And the winds shall moan through the forest trees;
And the voice shall say, for my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
I seek not life for my soul to move,
But the warrior-boy that his father loves,
Is the first-born child of his mother's love,
And the tallest roe of the Eagle-Doves!
If the bitterest death that my life can give,
Be enough for his—let the young boy live!
If my bleeding heart can suffice to prove—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
But the warrior-boy that his father loves,
Is the first-born child of his mother's love,
And the tallest roe of the Eagle-Doves!
If the bitterest death that my life can give,
Be enough for his—let the young boy live!
If my bleeding heart can suffice to prove—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
I know not why that my early death
Should deter my tale—for the deed is done!
I was once along on this very path,
And perceived three babes in the woods alone!
I threw them up in the air for life,
And caught them all on my pointed knife—
The knife that now would avenge my love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
Should deter my tale—for the deed is done!
I was once along on this very path,
And perceived three babes in the woods alone!
I threw them up in the air for life,
And caught them all on my pointed knife—
The knife that now would avenge my love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
Oh! who can find for my spirit rest,
As it passed away with the dying child?
For the dagger met with its tender breast,
As it gently looked in my face and smiled!
And, from that sad day, when alone, for years,
I have wept my soul into burning tears!
And, for all these things, thou hast bound my love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
As it passed away with the dying child?
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As it gently looked in my face and smiled!
And, from that sad day, when alone, for years,
I have wept my soul into burning tears!
And, for all these things, thou hast bound my love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
I have bent my bow on the milky swan,
As she skimmed along o'er the breasted lake;
I have pierced her mate as he wandered on
O'er the bristled isles of the reedy brake;
But the look that came from the dying child,
As it gently gazed in my face and smiled—
Is upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
As she skimmed along o'er the breasted lake;
I have pierced her mate as he wandered on
O'er the bristled isles of the reedy brake;
But the look that came from the dying child,
As it gently gazed in my face and smiled—
Is upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
The turtle hies to her cedar nest,
And the roebuck wanders from hill to hill;
And the eagle ascends to the sun to rest,—
But the same deep pangs are my portion still!
For the valley-paths where the infant smiled,
And the awful look of the dying child,—
Are upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
And the roebuck wanders from hill to hill;
And the eagle ascends to the sun to rest,—
But the same deep pangs are my portion still!
For the valley-paths where the infant smiled,
And the awful look of the dying child,—
Are upon me still—on my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
Oh! think not, man! that my heart is free
From the iron cares that corrode the breast!
I am fastened here, like an inland sea,
By the stagnant waves of my woes opprest!
I have not one hope that my tongue can tell!
I have only felt that my soul is—hell!
I can only feel for my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
From the iron cares that corrode the breast!
I am fastened here, like an inland sea,
By the stagnant waves of my woes opprest!
I have not one hope that my tongue can tell!
I have only felt that my soul is—hell!
I can only feel for my warrior-love—
Oh! white man! slay not my Eagle-Dove!
| Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems | |