OSCAR.
Holy hermit—not in ire Press we on thy cavern fire; Travellers we, from distant shores, Where the loud Atlantic roars, And the sun its earliest light Pours on valley, plain and height. By the Erie’s fretted shore, Plied we fast the cedar oar, And the Huron’s placid sea Swept with spirits light and free: Northward still we held our way, Glancing on by isle and bay, Bank and river, rift and wall, To St. Mary’s sounding fall— Foamy pass of waters wild! Islet green and rock up-piled, Where the torrent silver-crown’d, Dances on with murm’ring sound, Deep and mellow—while the eye Glows with thrilling ecstasy!
There we paus’d, and gazed, and felt Nature’s potent power to melt; But with ever brief delay Urged again our watery way, Till we felt the dizzy swell, As it rose, and as it fell, Of this vasty sheet and breeze, Sire of continental seas! And with joy unfelt before, Gazed upon its ocean shore.
Nor upon that border hoarse, Bent we many days our course, When a hunter, old and hoar, Spied we joyous on the shore. Him we urged, and by his skill Reached this storm-indented isle: Yet in all our lengthened way, Nought of wondrous, grave or gay, Have we met in joy or fear, Strange as thy existence here, Deemed by men a sacred shore, Mortal never trod before.
ALHALLA.
Hear me! of thy race severe, Nought I hope and nought I fear, Steel’d in heart, and steel’d in mind, To the ills of human kind; Yet, if in fate’s thorny round, Woes that press, and pains that wound, There were still a pang unblest, Deeper, keener than the rest, ’Twould be, in this secret place, To behold the white-man’s face— Fatal race! to whom I owe Bitter, lasting streams of woe— Hunted from my native plains, By wild war’s horrific strains— From my nation’s council-fire, By the plunderer’s reckless ire— From my lov’d, paternal streams, By the cannon’s battle-gleams— Driven from all I valued most, Kindred, country, fortune lost! I resolved apace to flee To some valley lone and free, Friendly wood or sheltering cave, Or some wild and distant wave, All too frigid, poor and dread, E’er to tempt the white-man’s tread; There unknown to pass my life, Free from rapine—free from strife— Happy in th’ unpeopled wild, With my loved, my only child! And full happy, freed from cares, Envy breeds, or hate prepares! Here in numbers brief and low, All unseen to vent my woe— Dream o’er scenes of early peace, And, as life’s pulsations cease, Sink to earth without a groan, Calm, unnoticed, and alone. But e’en this may not be so, Fresh the springs of sorrow flow! And the fiat black and drear Still pursues its victim here; As if ’twere a boon too high Thus to live and thus to die! To declare thy presence here Doth inspire a joy sincere, Or with gladness fills my eye, Were most base, unseemly lie! Yet, to wayward mortal feet, Is my roof a safe retreat; Be ye foes, or be ye friends, If impelled by noble ends, Chance, or circumstance severe, Chilly blast, or famine drear, Welcome is my stony cot, Welcome is my forest lot; Freely enter—freely share Cottage fire and cottage fare.
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 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.