[Enter an Indian, clad in the Southern costume.]
Ceas’d Azid’s voice; when there appears A form, in stature, looks, and years, Such as the fondest wish might trace When dreaming on the human race; Bold, tall, upright of frame and tone, The image of proud nature’s son; Thought mark’d his brow, and inward care Had flung o’er all a pensive air; The scars he bore, the eagle plume, Bespoke a warrior, not a groom Decked for the dance, with gay metasse,[8] And figured band, and bell of brass. A collar of the sacred shell He wore, that graced his figure well. Loose was his robe of banded blue, And ample fold, and gather true. Light was his tread, as zephyr’s sigh, And youth beam’d brightly from his eye. Cautious he passed the cavern bound, Then paus’d, and gazed intently round. It is Clewalla!—deftly o’er He sped, across that cavern floor, And at one rush, with joy confest, He clasps his Ednee to his breast.
No word is said—the sudden gush Of feeling warm, and memory’s flush— Of cares, and doubts, and hopes, and pains, Th’ o’ermaster’d tongue awhile enchains, While heart to throbbing heart careers, And vents its joy, at first, in tears! And then with quick response is heard, Soft interchange of fitting word, And all the fervid greeting kind, That rivets constant mind to mind. Oh love, there is no word, no sign, No token half so sweet as thine, When sighing hours, when ling’ring years, When hopes deferred, when pallid fears, Are banish’d all, and, at a start, Kind heart is riveted to heart. Whether the face be white or red, Within a cot or palace bred, Beneath the line, or at the pole, An unwont rapture fires the soul. We cannot say that sigh or vow Were brought to mind, or uttered now; We cannot say, that months or years Were counted o’er amid their tears; But this we can, and this we know, That past and gone was every woe; That former crosses—former tears, Were cast behind, with other years, And every thought that could annoy Deep buried in the present joy.
And now had gratulation past, And warrior-lover broken fast, And dainty haunch, and wild-fruit shar’d, By Ednee’s gentle hand prepar’d, And all in high expectance wait The annals of his wayward fate.
CLEWALLA.
Little suits it tide or time I should here descant on crime, War or loss, mischance or boast, That befell on southern coast, Where, by cruel fate impelled, As a captive I was held. Little boots it, that I here Once again should drop the tear, Not by red man often shed, Save above the honored dead; Or, by sad recitals, throw O’er this scene a garb of woe. Let it, once for all, suffice, That my path was hemmed by vice, Power, misfortune, cross and ill, Such as stoutest bosoms kill; But I had a warrior’s heart, That not light with life could part.
Oft I fought with club and knife, Strewing death’s dark path with life, But not often felt the blight Fate prepared that fearful night, When by river, rock, and dell, There Alhalla’s household fell: As I lifted high my brand, O’er the wide retreating strand, Hot the fight and loud the yell, This I only know, I fell: Consciousness, as with a thought, Left me, as the fight I fought, Sudden, as, if in a dream, What we do may only seem. When, from this unguarded stroke, First to life and sense I woke, Darkness spread around the plain, Shielding dying, dead, and slain; Slowly rising from my gore, Faint, I sought the river’s shore; Fatal act! to drink or die, Purchased by captivity. Yet my fate was not to fall By the broadsword or the ball; Taught by kindly hands to know War doth mingle balms with woe, And ’tis only on the field Saxon men will never yield. Soft they made my prison bed, Kindly nurtured, kindly fed, Till my wounds and fevered brain Health and soundness felt again.
Seasons now had passed their round When I sought my native ground; But I found no kindred tone, Fire had swept it, friends were gone; Men were ploughing, where, in cheer, Once I chased the noble deer; Piles of brick, and wood, and stone, Rose to heaven—the engine’s groan, The big wheel’s dash, the rattling train, Announced the white man’s iron reign.
I sought thy cot—it was a plain Where reapers reapt the yellow grain; I sought the grove, whose solemn shade Our council fire so oft displayed: It was with angled piles beset, Dome, dwelling, garnished minaret, Or steeple called;—with pensive tread I wound me, where repose the dead, And long affection’s pious hand With evening fires illumed the land; It was a shorn and mangled glade, Where not a staddle cast a shade.
Still thee I sought, the wide west round, But need I say, I never found, Or where thou hadst in solace flown, To what strange people, not thine own. At length I came where I could hear That thou wert living, but not near; But still so balked by wayward fate, My footsteps they were e’er too late; Last, chanced I, with a random aim, For still I heard thy father’s fame, Ethwald’s rapid bark to spy Bound to this magnific sky; Him I followed—but no wail, Word or gesture, told my tale, Trusting some kind chance would ope Fortune, which I scarce could hope; And so led, by heaven’s decree, Ventured in this sylvan sea. Ask me not of other woes, Why I chose not—why I chose? Why I did not—why I did? Time will tell what now is hid; For my joy that thus we meet, Changing bitter scenes to sweet, Is as flowing, fair, and free, As kind heaven could make it be.