Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega A tale of the Creek War |
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| 5. | CANTO V.
THE FALL OF THE MUSCOGEE RACE. THE VOLUNTARY EXILE. |
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 | Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega |  |
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CANTO V.
THE FALL OF THE MUSCOGEE RACE. THE VOLUNTARY EXILE.
[Scene in reminiscence. The valley of the Coosa river, and parts adjacent.]ALHALLA.
Who is Elohim? who? I said—
The vision broke—the angel fled.
Dread on my ear these accents broke,
And high—it seemed a god who spoke—
His features, as my race he drew,
Assumed a clear and heavenly hue,
And voice, and attitude, and air,
Became more fearful, bright and fair,
Till the transcendence pained the sight;
And when he ceas'd—a cloud of light,
Far stretching up the starry frame,
Told whence he flew, and whence he came.
My soul an inward tremor shook,
And in a wild amaze I woke.
The sun was darting from his bed
A gorgeous flame of gold and red,
That streaming far, and wide, and free,
Gilt bank and bower, cliff and tree,
And merry birds of plumage fair,
With varied sweetness fill'd the air.
The vision broke—the angel fled.
Dread on my ear these accents broke,
And high—it seemed a god who spoke—
His features, as my race he drew,
Assumed a clear and heavenly hue,
And voice, and attitude, and air,
Became more fearful, bright and fair,
Till the transcendence pained the sight;
And when he ceas'd—a cloud of light,
Far stretching up the starry frame,
Told whence he flew, and whence he came.
My soul an inward tremor shook,
And in a wild amaze I woke.
The sun was darting from his bed
A gorgeous flame of gold and red,
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Gilt bank and bower, cliff and tree,
And merry birds of plumage fair,
With varied sweetness fill'd the air.
The man who o'er unfathom'd brink
Hangs trembling, and in dread to sink,
By friendly arm quick rescued thence,
Feels not more deep or joyful sense
Of peril past—than to my heart
That morning's opening scenes impart.
But as that fear the trembler knew,
My joy was all as transient too.
I could not chase away the gleam,
And semblance of that mystic dream;
And still before my waking eyes,
I saw that bloody monster rise,
And heard the furious dash and roar,
Of waves loud beating on the shore—
I felt the truths that spirit said,
I felt that we had err'd and stray'd,
And left the bright and shining road,
That leads through nature up to God:
And yet, I ill could comprehend,
That vision's proper type and end,
Or tell what time my warlike band,
Had worship'd him in other land,
Or followed other rites, or why
Thus doomed to quit that kindlier sky;
Or how I might direct my race,
Their 'wildered track again to trace.
Hard, dark and cruel seem'd my lot,
Part knew I, and part knew I not—
And as, on either hand I weighed
Thought and belief—the more I stray'd:
This told me, it were sure design'd,
One God should rule all human kind;
That, that the white and red man's road
Led upward to a sep'rate god;
That spirits obdurate or kind,
Of lesser rank o'erruled the mind,
And that, of powers who o'er us stood,
The good, unasked, were ever good,
While some fit rite and off'ring had
Been deem'd a duty tow'rd the bad.
Hangs trembling, and in dread to sink,
By friendly arm quick rescued thence,
Feels not more deep or joyful sense
Of peril past—than to my heart
That morning's opening scenes impart.
But as that fear the trembler knew,
My joy was all as transient too.
I could not chase away the gleam,
And semblance of that mystic dream;
And still before my waking eyes,
I saw that bloody monster rise,
And heard the furious dash and roar,
Of waves loud beating on the shore—
I felt the truths that spirit said,
I felt that we had err'd and stray'd,
And left the bright and shining road,
That leads through nature up to God:
And yet, I ill could comprehend,
That vision's proper type and end,
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Had worship'd him in other land,
Or followed other rites, or why
Thus doomed to quit that kindlier sky;
Or how I might direct my race,
Their 'wildered track again to trace.
Hard, dark and cruel seem'd my lot,
Part knew I, and part knew I not—
And as, on either hand I weighed
Thought and belief—the more I stray'd:
This told me, it were sure design'd,
One God should rule all human kind;
That, that the white and red man's road
Led upward to a sep'rate god;
That spirits obdurate or kind,
Of lesser rank o'erruled the mind,
And that, of powers who o'er us stood,
The good, unasked, were ever good,
While some fit rite and off'ring had
Been deem'd a duty tow'rd the bad.
Oscar.
An erring creed! one God alone,
Rules and supports the starry throne,
And earthly spheres—and all the host,
Of various men, from coast to coast;
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To sanction discord, crime, or lust.
Alhalla.
Thou speakest of thy knowledge. Mine,
Ill should I speak, to call divine.
In forests nurtured, raised, and taught,
Of simple nature is my thought—
That nature which, if e'er it felt
The power of love divine to melt,
And purify and raise the heart,
And tread the darkling maze of art,
Or ever learned to think or feel,
With holy, pure, ethereal zeal,
Long since hath fall'n and wander'd thence,
To deeds of plain, material sense;
And what we touch, and know, and see,
With form or life to move or be,
And all that is not such, or seems,
Makes up the Indian's world of dreams.
Nor, till that well remembered hour,
E'er felt I aught of other power,
Or task'd my mind to think my fate
Hung on supernal love or hate;
Or when, from this frail tenement
To other worlds the spirit went,
Had questioned my confiding breast,
The brave man's spirit should be blest.
Ill should I speak, to call divine.
In forests nurtured, raised, and taught,
Of simple nature is my thought—
That nature which, if e'er it felt
The power of love divine to melt,
And purify and raise the heart,
And tread the darkling maze of art,
Or ever learned to think or feel,
With holy, pure, ethereal zeal,
Long since hath fall'n and wander'd thence,
To deeds of plain, material sense;
And what we touch, and know, and see,
With form or life to move or be,
And all that is not such, or seems,
Makes up the Indian's world of dreams.
Nor, till that well remembered hour,
E'er felt I aught of other power,
Or task'd my mind to think my fate
Hung on supernal love or hate;
Or when, from this frail tenement
To other worlds the spirit went,
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The brave man's spirit should be blest.
But anxious thoughts opprest me now,
I felt—what I could scarce avow—
A sense of error deep and base,
Both in myself and in my race,
And that whate'er in former hour
Had been my nation's fame or power,
Or whatsoe'er that power might be,
In distant, dim futurity,
We now were given o'er to feel
The strong oppressor's heavy steel,
And weak and vain must be that fight,
Maintain'd in fate's and heaven's spite.
I felt—what I could scarce avow—
A sense of error deep and base,
Both in myself and in my race,
And that whate'er in former hour
Had been my nation's fame or power,
Or whatsoe'er that power might be,
In distant, dim futurity,
We now were given o'er to feel
The strong oppressor's heavy steel,
And weak and vain must be that fight,
Maintain'd in fate's and heaven's spite.
I call'd the elders—they who prest
Still on the leafy couch of rest,
And leaning on my staff arose,
To paint our bleeding country's woes—
I spoke of losses dread and sore,
By shot or brand, in field and store,
And that still sorer press and great,
I saw within the womb of fate;
And last—upon th' awaken'd ear,
With voice and gesture strong and clear,
I poured my high prophetic dream,
Part after part—such as still gleam
Before my mind, its features dread,
With all that boding spirit said.
“And oh, my people,” thus I cried,
“Snatch from your breast the serpent, pride;
“Forsake the war-path and the strife,
“Throw from your hands the murd'rous knife,
“And bury deep, and bury free,
“The purple war-club; and decree,
“That he who digs it up in ire,
“The same shall expiate in fire.”
I ceas'd—approving plaudits loud,
Rang heart-responsive through the crowd.
Still on the leafy couch of rest,
And leaning on my staff arose,
To paint our bleeding country's woes—
I spoke of losses dread and sore,
By shot or brand, in field and store,
And that still sorer press and great,
I saw within the womb of fate;
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With voice and gesture strong and clear,
I poured my high prophetic dream,
Part after part—such as still gleam
Before my mind, its features dread,
With all that boding spirit said.
“And oh, my people,” thus I cried,
“Snatch from your breast the serpent, pride;
“Forsake the war-path and the strife,
“Throw from your hands the murd'rous knife,
“And bury deep, and bury free,
“The purple war-club; and decree,
“That he who digs it up in ire,
“The same shall expiate in fire.”
I ceas'd—approving plaudits loud,
Rang heart-responsive through the crowd.
The sun had not ascended high,
Along the blue, unclouded sky,
When, bearing pipe and wampum gay,
My counsellors were on their way,
And ere the heath had lost its damp,
They stood within the foeman's camp,
Prepared from further strife to cease,
The firm ambassadors of peace,
And urge their suit: the war-worn chief,
Assents in words direct and brief,
But calls on all the gathered band,
Before his star-crown'd tent to stand,
By chief or elder—there to treat,
And judge of peace, and limits meet;
Meantime with promise bids them speed,
To consecrate such holy deed.
Along the blue, unclouded sky,
When, bearing pipe and wampum gay,
My counsellors were on their way,
And ere the heath had lost its damp,
They stood within the foeman's camp,
Prepared from further strife to cease,
The firm ambassadors of peace,
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Assents in words direct and brief,
But calls on all the gathered band,
Before his star-crown'd tent to stand,
By chief or elder—there to treat,
And judge of peace, and limits meet;
Meantime with promise bids them speed,
To consecrate such holy deed.
But ah! what mortal man can say,
He counts upon one single day
Of fortune, favor, health, or bliss,
In such uncertain scene as this!
For, ere another setting sun,
All—all! was vanished, lost, undone!
And while, from war-mark'd front and cheek
My young men washed the vermil streak,
And elders counsel and prepare
To drop the war-club and the war—
Upon a sudden—horse and men
Come rushing on o'er hill and glen,
And wide encircling field and cot,
With fire and sword, and hissing shot,
Assail my wonder-stricken bands,
Who stand with peace-pipes in their hands!
He counts upon one single day
Of fortune, favor, health, or bliss,
In such uncertain scene as this!
For, ere another setting sun,
All—all! was vanished, lost, undone!
And while, from war-mark'd front and cheek
My young men washed the vermil streak,
And elders counsel and prepare
To drop the war-club and the war—
Upon a sudden—horse and men
Come rushing on o'er hill and glen,
And wide encircling field and cot,
With fire and sword, and hissing shot,
Assail my wonder-stricken bands,
Who stand with peace-pipes in their hands!
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Unarmed and unprepared, they spy
The foe perfidious drawing nigh,
Yet scarce can deem that deed so base
Should stain the whites' obdurate race;
Nor deigned they—when they felt th' attack,
With all its missile horror black!
To raise a lance—or draw a bow,
Or supplicate th' infuriate foe;
Or break that honest pledge of faith
Once given: but calmly meeting death,
There brave as noble martyrs stood,
Nor shed one drop of foeman's blood,
While three score warriors, honor-crown'd,
In mortal silence pressed the ground,
And twice six score the conq'ror saves,
To grace his tarnish'd sword as slaves.
The foe perfidious drawing nigh,
Yet scarce can deem that deed so base
Should stain the whites' obdurate race;
Nor deigned they—when they felt th' attack,
With all its missile horror black!
To raise a lance—or draw a bow,
Or supplicate th' infuriate foe;
Or break that honest pledge of faith
Once given: but calmly meeting death,
There brave as noble martyrs stood,
Nor shed one drop of foeman's blood,
While three score warriors, honor-crown'd,
In mortal silence pressed the ground,
And twice six score the conq'ror saves,
To grace his tarnish'd sword as slaves.
Perfidious! have I called—who slights
Or peace or war's time-honored rights!
For then I knew not other head
That band of fierce assailants led,
And not that chief surnamed The Hard,
Who erst received our warm regard.
But ours the wrong, and ours the woe,
We only saw one gen'ral foe,
And knew not name or rank, or who
Th' extended hand of peace withdrew.
Or peace or war's time-honored rights!
For then I knew not other head
That band of fierce assailants led,
And not that chief surnamed The Hard,
Who erst received our warm regard.
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We only saw one gen'ral foe,
And knew not name or rank, or who
Th' extended hand of peace withdrew.
Me, wounds detained within my bower,
Upon that fell, destroying hour,
Nor deemed I rout, or battle roar,
Should vex my suppliant nation more;
Their hapless fate my bosom mourn'd,
And all to peace my hopes I turn'd.
Old as I was, and weak and scarr'd,
Meet seemed the thought, to be prepared,
At night or noon, in bed or field,
The prisoned spark of life to yield,
And leave to those with vigor rife,
Its sweets and sorrows, joys and strife.
One wish alone inspir'd my breast,
It was to see my Ednee blest.
Upon that fell, destroying hour,
Nor deemed I rout, or battle roar,
Should vex my suppliant nation more;
Their hapless fate my bosom mourn'd,
And all to peace my hopes I turn'd.
Old as I was, and weak and scarr'd,
Meet seemed the thought, to be prepared,
At night or noon, in bed or field,
The prisoned spark of life to yield,
And leave to those with vigor rife,
Its sweets and sorrows, joys and strife.
One wish alone inspir'd my breast,
It was to see my Ednee blest.
And now, around my cottage fire
Due care the festive rites require,
For oft had bold Clewalla sued
Alliance with my ancient blood,
And with meet gifts and parlance bland,
Implored my Ednee's timid hand;
But ne'er before—that gentle claim
Enforced in fame and valour's name,
For now in the same person blend,
The swain, deliverer and friend.
But still, a cruel fate in this,
Pervades, and mars the cup of bliss!
And while the gallant warrior stands
Expectant—at my willing hands,
A sudden tumult wild and high,
Rings fearfully along the sky—
“A foe—a foe!” the runners shout,
And all is hurry, whoop, and rout!
Due care the festive rites require,
For oft had bold Clewalla sued
Alliance with my ancient blood,
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Implored my Ednee's timid hand;
But ne'er before—that gentle claim
Enforced in fame and valour's name,
For now in the same person blend,
The swain, deliverer and friend.
But still, a cruel fate in this,
Pervades, and mars the cup of bliss!
And while the gallant warrior stands
Expectant—at my willing hands,
A sudden tumult wild and high,
Rings fearfully along the sky—
“A foe—a foe!” the runners shout,
And all is hurry, whoop, and rout!
Short space there is for look or word—
The warriors, with one spirit stirr'd,
Seize club and bow, and fusil light,
And fly towards the gathering fight;
Clewalla leads—along the wood
Deep shouts resound, and cries of blood,
And soon the distant crack and roar
Proclaim another scene of gore.
And rumor rise, along the plain,
Repeats a tale of lost and slain.
From out a wood two hosts advance,
With glittering sword and pointed lance,
Rank upon rank—our light clad men,
Unbooted all, re-sought the glen,
There, tree to tree, to ward the blow,
And best their forest breeding show;
But while they rally, shout and form,
Behold athwart—another storm!
Fierce, heavy horsemen, sword on high,
Gleam through the woods and fill the sky.
Environed thus, no hope remains
But that a brave man's hand sustains;
Nor this availed, though plied with skill
O'er mead and valley, wood and hill,
And sixty brave hearts, slain that day,
Attest the fury of the fray;
Clewalla, known for daring cry,
Where bayonets cross and bullets fly,
With rampant arm is seen maintain
The strife, till sinking with the slain;
But whether wounded, or if low,
The pulse of life still kept its flow,
Spake rumor not; we searched in vain
Along the wood, amid the slain;
We traced each secret glen and shore,
But never saw Clewalla more.
Murmur there was of varying sound
That he to distant fort was bound,
A captive held; yet ever prone
To swell and shift, and change her tone,
We found it like an evening's tale,
And all our search was doomed to fail:
Or if he e'er returned, his tread
Was light as ghost of warrior dead.
The warriors, with one spirit stirr'd,
Seize club and bow, and fusil light,
And fly towards the gathering fight;
Clewalla leads—along the wood
Deep shouts resound, and cries of blood,
And soon the distant crack and roar
Proclaim another scene of gore.
And rumor rise, along the plain,
Repeats a tale of lost and slain.
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With glittering sword and pointed lance,
Rank upon rank—our light clad men,
Unbooted all, re-sought the glen,
There, tree to tree, to ward the blow,
And best their forest breeding show;
But while they rally, shout and form,
Behold athwart—another storm!
Fierce, heavy horsemen, sword on high,
Gleam through the woods and fill the sky.
Environed thus, no hope remains
But that a brave man's hand sustains;
Nor this availed, though plied with skill
O'er mead and valley, wood and hill,
And sixty brave hearts, slain that day,
Attest the fury of the fray;
Clewalla, known for daring cry,
Where bayonets cross and bullets fly,
With rampant arm is seen maintain
The strife, till sinking with the slain;
But whether wounded, or if low,
The pulse of life still kept its flow,
Spake rumor not; we searched in vain
Along the wood, amid the slain;
We traced each secret glen and shore,
But never saw Clewalla more.
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That he to distant fort was bound,
A captive held; yet ever prone
To swell and shift, and change her tone,
We found it like an evening's tale,
And all our search was doomed to fail:
Or if he e'er returned, his tread
Was light as ghost of warrior dead.
Betrayed, encompassed, beaten, prest!
Stern desperation fired each breast;
They burn with wild revenge and ire,
Re-light again the battle fire;
Re-poise the lance—re-plume the dart,
And rousing each bold warrior art,
Poured on the reckless battle tide,
Nor asked the boon which they denied.
Stern desperation fired each breast;
They burn with wild revenge and ire,
Re-light again the battle fire;
Re-poise the lance—re-plume the dart,
And rousing each bold warrior art,
Poured on the reckless battle tide,
Nor asked the boon which they denied.
And long they fought and freely bled,
And heaped their valleys with the dead;
For plain, defile, or wild retreat,
Still brought disaster and defeat,
And every hallowed wood and shore,
Was soiled with war-hoof, axe, or gore.
I mixed again amid the strife,
Light estimating limb or life,
And for a season strove to guide
And stem the furious battle tide.
But why repeat the bitter tale?
I saw each manly effort fail;
We fought, as if against a spell,
And, foiled, with Tuscaloosa fell.”
The poor Muscogee race may say,
They yet shall see a happier day;
That happier day I ne'er shall see,
I deem none happy if not free:
And with that war—so fates conspire—
Went out the brave Muscogee fire.
I, scorning on that soil to be
No longer honor'd, lov'd, or free!
Resolved to leave those sunny strands,
For distant woods and stranger's lands,
And bending far, still onward hied,
By vale and torrent, rock and tide,
With purpose high, and aim severe,
To close a life of suff'ring here.
Here in my house, which nature made
Without the white man's skill or aid,
A few short years shall close my eyes,
And leave my bones in northern skies,
And not a trace be left to show
Alhalla's fate—Alhalla's woe.
And heaped their valleys with the dead;
For plain, defile, or wild retreat,
Still brought disaster and defeat,
And every hallowed wood and shore,
Was soiled with war-hoof, axe, or gore.
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Light estimating limb or life,
And for a season strove to guide
And stem the furious battle tide.
But why repeat the bitter tale?
I saw each manly effort fail;
We fought, as if against a spell,
And, foiled, with Tuscaloosa fell.”
The poor Muscogee race may say,
They yet shall see a happier day;
That happier day I ne'er shall see,
I deem none happy if not free:
And with that war—so fates conspire—
Went out the brave Muscogee fire.
I, scorning on that soil to be
No longer honor'd, lov'd, or free!
Resolved to leave those sunny strands,
For distant woods and stranger's lands,
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By vale and torrent, rock and tide,
With purpose high, and aim severe,
To close a life of suff'ring here.
Here in my house, which nature made
Without the white man's skill or aid,
A few short years shall close my eyes,
And leave my bones in northern skies,
And not a trace be left to show
Alhalla's fate—Alhalla's woe.
The fall of Tuscaloosa, or the Black Warrior, is here symbolically fixed on as the fall of the nation. This noted chief was not, however, killed in battle; he came voluntarily to Gen. Jackson's camp and surrendered himself. He had disguised himself in mean clothes to prevent his being shot down by the soldiers, as a price had been set on his head. Hence the nobility of his declaration, on entering the General's tent—“I am Tuscaloosa.”
| Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega | |