Tululah was Ocala's child,
To whom the Creeks ascribe
The name of the boldest leader
That ever led their tribe!
A savage of herculean build,
With fierce and restless eye,
His haughty lip deigned not to smile,
And scorned to breathe a sigh!
Tululah was his pride and joy,
The only thing he loved on earth,
Since she became an orphan
At the fatal hour of birth!
The superstitious savage
Deemed her mother's spirit nigh,
And thought, who harmed an orphan,
By a spirit hand should die!
She was born, too, "In a Castle,"
Gifted with a "second sight;"
Friends of earth, and sea, and air,
At her command would fight.
Her raven locks and soulful eyes,
Her faultless form and peerless face,
And voice of wondrous melody
Awed and charmed her race.
She reigned an undisputed Queen,
All her mandate must obey;
And even the fierce Ocala
Was obedient to her sway.
Yet even she was powerless
To stay the raging flood
Of tireless, deathless savage hate
That sought the white man's blood.
Ocala's hatred of the whites
Was known both far and near;
Brave hunters spake his name with awe,
And women in trembling fear!
At last he grew so treacherous
No white man dared come nigh,
Till a trio of gallant hunters
Determined he should die!
They knew 'twas a dangerous mission
On which their steps was bent,
Yet the prayers of honest settlers
Their true hearts courage lent.
As they neared the sleeping village,
Where Ocala awaited his doom,
They flitted like weird spectres
In the silent midnight gloom!
There, spread before their vision,
Five hundred wigwams lay;
A savage guerdon of defense
For him they sought to slay.
To the silent village center
Our gallant hunters crept,
To the door of the largest wigwam,
Where proud Ocala slept.
Stepping across the prostrate form
Of the sentinel at the door,
They breathed a prayer for absent ones,
Whom they might see no more.
Three knives flashed in midnight air,
Then fell with a sickening thud,
Ocala, Napoleon of his tribe,
Lay withering in his blood!
But hark! what means that fierce warhoop,
Resounding loud and clear?
'Tis the bugle blast that calls each brave
When the paleface foe is near!
Gathering fast in the midnight gloom,
They form "The Circle of Death"
Around the dauntless hunters,
Who stand with bated breath
Awaiting the savage onslaught,
Determined to sell their lives
To the service of their country
And the freedom of men's wives;
While pitying Heaven aids them
By the darkness of the night,
Since not a star will lend its aid
To guide their foes aright!