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Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega: A Tale of the Creek War. / With Some Selected Miscellanies, Chiefly of Early Date. cover

Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega: A Tale of the Creek War. / With Some Selected Miscellanies, Chiefly of Early Date.

Chapter 12: GEEHALE. AN INDIAN LAMENT.
By Henry Rowe Schoolcraft
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About This Book

A historical tale set just after the Creek War portrays the Muscogee (Creek) nation's resistance, its military engagements, and the personal and communal consequences of defeat. Action is concentrated into a brief, dramatic period and delivered through a mix of narrative description and staged speeches that aim to evoke Native oratory and landscape. Supplementary miscellanies and occasional verse frame the main story and provide ethnographic detail. Recurring themes include loss of sovereignty, cultural memory and dignity, the clash between indigenous societies and expanding American forces, and the emotional aftermath of warfare, all rendered with a blend of romantic imagery and observational comment.

GEEHALE.
AN INDIAN LAMENT.

The blackbird is singing on Michigan’s shore, As sweetly and gaily as ever before, For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o’er our mountains as beamy a light, As it ever reflected, or ever express’d, When my skies were the bluest—my dreams were the best. The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back, Each bird and each beast, it is blest in degree, All nature is cheerful—all happy but me.
I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair, I will paint me with black and will sever my hair:— I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes:— I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead; But they died not by hunger, or ling’ring decay, The steel of the white man hath swept them away.
This snake skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss with disdain on the storm-beaten shore; Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light, I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night, I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves, And will take a new manito—such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. Oh, then, I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes. I shall wash from my face every peace-color’d stain, Red, red! shall alone on my visage remain. I will dig up my hatchet and bend my oak bow, By night and by day, I will follow the foe; No lake shall repress me—no mountain oppose, His blood can alone give my spirit repose.
They came to my cabin when heaven was black, I heard not their coming—I knew not their track, But I saw by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engender’d beyond the big seas. My wife and my children—oh spare me the tale,— But who is there left, that is kin to Geehale?
Albany, 1820.