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.
Hear my words:—Thrice twenty snows Have bleach’d and chill’d these frontless brows, And sun and frost, and wind and rain, Prevail’d alternate o’er the plain, As moons revolved—since erst with joy I roved a careless hunter boy, Full free from sorrow, care, and pain, On Talladega’s sunny plain, And every year with fresh delight, Gleamed on my fond enraptured sight, And youth fled fast, and manhood came, But manhood found me still the same. I swept the woods with bended bow, And laid the deer and panther low; I sail’d the streams with net and line, And captive schools were often mine; I marched against the western foe, And laid the roving Paunee low; I sung my war-song, danced my round, Spuming with manly tread the ground; I met my peers in wood and glen, And knew no want, and fear’d no men, But look’d, and spoke, and felt, and thought, As one that lack’d and dreaded nought; And all was glorious—all was gay, A happy, bright, transcendent day. But years, that turn the young man gray, Brought silent on another day. War came:—not such as mem’ry tells Once rung through Tuscaloosa’s dells, When simple wood-craft plied her art, Club against club, and dart to dart, But grim, exterminating wrath, That heaped with dead his giant path, Embracing in one gen’ral sweep Both those; who strike and those who weep, The young and old, the weak and brave, Driv’n onward to one gen’ral grave. Upon the front of this fell storm, Rode gallant chief of martial form, Whose woodland skill, and battle ire, E’en vanquish’d warriors may admire.
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.
Few suns set on that dismal scene, My wounds were still unsear’d and green, When thundering on with trump and drum, I heard again the war-horse come, Like gathering tempest, big and black, That through the forest wings its track, Sweeping and tearing all that stand, And desolating wood and land. But I had oft seen danger near, And knew not that base feeling—fear! I roused my warriors from the rest That with short, fitful dreams they prest, And armed for fight, and strife and pain, Stood firm on Talladega’s plain. Oh Talladega! thou art still My native wood! my native hill! There knew I first my father’s voice, And felt my infant mind rejoice, And all those sweet endearments start, That nature winds about the heart, And home, and love, and bliss, and fame, That cluster round a parent’s name. And there I hoped to live and die, In nature’s sweet simplicity; Unmov’d with arts, or cares, or strife, That mingle in the white man’s life; Nor knew I whence th’ intruder came, Nor what his race, or what his fame; Nor car’d, nor wish’d, nor sought to be Else than I was—a Hillabee. And still I hoped, when nature threw Around my brows the silver hue, And fainting limbs proclaimed the close Of earthly cares and earthly woes, To lay me down with sober care, And slumber with my fathers there. Ah! land of all my heart holds dear, Thy groves are desolate and sear— The echoes of thy winding shore Shall charm my listening ear no more— The winds that whistle o’er thy plain Repeat a sad and hollow strain, And all thy haunts are fill’d with moans, And whitened by my nation’s bones.
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.