"Rejoice! rejoice! ye howling fiends,
Distort your hideous face,
Soon the white man's wrath shall sweep
From earth your blood-stained race,
While shining fields and cities fair
Attest the white man's power,
You accursed Creeks shall be
Tradition's useless dower!"
Now comes your own ancestor,
The gallant, brave McCray,
Who planned this glorious campaign
And led the awful fight.
He was a perfect Hercules,
Cast in Apollo's mould,
With a heart of witching tenderness,
Yet proud and dauntless soul.
Oft had he visited this tribe,
On peaceful mission bent,
And to many a savage
His kind assistance lent.
Yet little dreamed he, at this hour,
One heart amid that throng
Still beat responsive to his own,
Attuned to love's mad song!
Yet, as they bound him to the stake
And raised the flaming brand,
The Chief that held it fell a corpse,
Killed by a woman's hand!
And Indian maiden loosed his bands
And raised her voice on high:
"Who harms my paleface lover
By Tululah's hand shall die!"
Behold, the savage concourse stand,
Transfixed by silent awe,
And gaze upon Ocala's child,
Held sacred by their law!
They feared Ocala's spirit
Might then be hovering nigh;
Nor dared to harm his darling child,
Lest he who harmed her die!
The Queen, with head and form erect,
Bore McCray undismayed,
And in her father's wigwam
Her wounded lover laid!
Then bending gently o'er him,
Each wound she rightly dress,
And with sweet plaintive melodies
Lured the weary one to rest.
At dawning light McCray awoke,
His Queen still lingering there;
His eyes bespoke his gratitude,
His lips were moved in prayer
For the lithe and graceful maiden
Whose love he knew to be
Pure as early morning's blush,
Yet deathless as—Eternity!
Although once failed, his savage foes
Still thirsted for his blood;
The hate within their bosoms
Was as tireless as a flood.
Not daring open violence,
They sought Oneida's craft,
And 'neath the guise of friendship
Gave the lovers a sleeping draught.
When the mighty god of slumber
Had locked them fast in sleep,
The wily savage entered,
His fearful oath to keep.
They took McCray to the river
In sight of these roaring falls,
Whose sheer descent—two hundred feet—
The stoutest heart appalls!
They bound him fast in a frail canoe,
Set adrift 'mid the current's flow,
Believing his life would be dashed out
On the jagged rocks below.
Then, gladly turning homeward,
A ready lie they make
To appease her burning anger
When Tululah shall awake!