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.[6] 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.
CANTO VI.
THE RE-UNION.
[Scene. The Cave; Alhalla, Ethwald, Oscar, Mongazid, Ednee, Clewalla, De la Joie; with their separate retinues and attendants. Time, Evening.]
As spoke the chief of waning fate, And foeman’s ire, and spirit’s hate, And hurried on through martial feats, And routs, and battles, and defeats, No tremor weak, or muscle’s throe, Betoken’d mark of inward woe, Or, aught the scanning eye could see, That stoic warrior should not be.
But when he told of sacred seats, And winding shores, and still retreats, By trampling hoof, and rampart soil’d, And sepulchre of gifts despoil’d To light the torch, that spread amain One smoking ruin o’er the plain,— And that, though loved and cherish’d yet, The land his soul could ne’er forget, He sicken’d on that soil to be, When now no longer blest or free— An altered brow, a look of fire, Betray a burst of scorn and ire, And that high spirit, air, and gait, Which rises still above its fate, And though hem’d in by want or pain, Stoops not to parley or complain. And when he ceas’d—in conscious pride, He drew his ample robe aside, Revealing gorget, crest, and ring, Th’ insignia of an Indian King, And cowry shell, and wampum wreath, That ill-conceal’d the scars beneath, And all might know, and all might see, His double honors and degree. Then folding back, with lofty air, His wrapper-robe—erect and fair, With martial pomp, and thoughtful mood, In silent majesty he stood;— An object, more ennobled far, By high-born soul, and honored scar, Than all the baubles, gaud, and show, That mortal monarch can bestow.
While yet the chieftain’s accents rung Upon the mind, and chain’d each tongue, With looks that spoke some latent care, Though ill concealed by studied air, Advanced, with ever sober speed, That spare and silver’d Jossakeed,[7] Grave Mongazid, and in his hand He bore a pipe, and held a wand, And from his belt, securely drawn, Impends the furr’d Metá-wyaun— A sacred care—while eagle’s crest And amulet protect his breast From ill by unseen spirit sent, Or fiend’s transforming punishment; (Such as once fell, to his deep ken, When gods assumed the shapes of men,) And over all, the quiver light, And javelin-club, for mortal fight Contingent: Bold and free his tone, Bow or obeisance makes he none; But, pois’d erect as plummet’s line, Thus speaks of evil thought—design: The while on Oscar casts his eyes, Or Ethwald, bent in mute surprise.
MONGAZID.
Not far the golden orb of light Had sped, on his aerial flight, Nor gained he yet the central sky, Ere—bent on mystic rite and high— I sought a lone, embower’d place, And just within the wood’s embrace, But not excluding partial sight Of winding shore, and waters bright, There had I rais’d my humble stone Of sacrifice;—that duty done, Would have return’d, when object new, Half veiled in mist, arrests my view;— In human form it seem’d bedight, Of giant limb and giant might— Onward it came, along the strand, With thoughtful pace and outstretch’d hand, As if in act to speak, or press, But changing, still grew less and less, Till burst of sunbeam, quick and bright, Displayed a stature human quite, And as he came more near to me, Behold, a noble Hillabee! A youth of pensive mien, and tall, Whom in thy thoughts thou may’st recall.
He stopt;—and drawing from his breast A knife-sheath, oft its surface prest With fervent lip—and it seem’d fair, With inwrought quill, and stained hair— Then look’d he up to heaven, with eyes That sought the pity of the skies, And once again that pledge he prest, Then drew the blade—and in his breast Had plung’d it deep, but from my stand I sprang, and foil’d his lifted hand. Pale and aghast awhile he stood, Then flung that weapon in the flood, And, with embraces warm and rife, Thank’d and re-thank’d me for his life.