CANTO IV.
THE WARRIOR’S DREAM.
A PROPHECY.
[Scene in reminiscence. The forest of Talladega. Alhalla alone. Time, midnight.]
ALHALLA.
The sun went down that fatal night,
Not as it wont, in glory bright,
But veil’d in clouds of sombre trace,
Prophetic of my falling race.
I stood upon a rising ground,
As darkness flung her mantle round,
And heard the last, departing din,
Of horse and footmen, gathering in,
With clank of steel, and sharp hallo,
As from the onset they withdrew,
Far winding down the distant hill,
Faint, and more faint—then all was still,
Save crackling tread, or groan severe
Of hapless comrade, weltering near:
For all that wide, extended wood,
Was strewed with carnage, death and blood.
I stood as petrified, with thought
On all one fleeting day had wrought—
Of friend and foe—the brave and dead—
And those who fought, and those who fled;
And bitter were the pangs that came
That hour within my inmost frame:
For I had seen a father slain,
A father old in years and pain;
Two brothers stricken at my side,
And a fond parent’s dearest pride,
The child hope shone most brightly on,
My loved, my first-born, only son!
In grief absorbed and musing high,
And yet no tear escaped my eye—
No sigh my bosom heaved—no moan
Bespoke my heart’s forsaken tone;
But sealed in woe, within that wood,
Unmoved as storm-beat rock I stood.
The moon, in pity veiled that night,
Shed out a transitory light,
As dusky clouds, in rapid chase,
Now hid, and now revealed her face;
And by her feeble, trembling ray,
I took my solitary way—
The narrow, winding, leaf-clad road,
Conducting to my own abode—
The fragile shed, that, low and poor,
So oft hath made me feel secure;
So oft hath spread its sheathing wild
To guard the mother and the child;
That shed, which, howsoe’er he roam,
Still forms the Indian warrior’s home—
And which he would not change, or give,
Like Briton, Scot, or Gaul to live,
For all the wealth that kings command,
Or temples made with mortal hand.
Brief space I walked, when, turning round
A beetling rock that walled the ground,
And just o’erhung my lodge, there fell
Sounds on my ear I knew not well;
A murmur indistinct—and then
The harsh, brief words of stranger men.
A pause ensued—shriek! I sped
To guard my lowly, leaf-crowned shed,
And saw, with deeply rous’d alarms,
My Ednee in a soldier’s arms
Borne shrieking off, in accents wild,
‘Oh, father! save thy injured child!’
What space there was ’twixt him that bore
And my own stand upon the shore,
Ill can I vouch—but, wide or spare,
One instant served to waft me there.
I raised one yell my warriors knew—
For I had warriors still, and true—
Then sprang, and drew, and smote with might,
And still the plunderers answered—smite!
And still those thrilling accents wild,
Rung in my ears—“Oh, save thy child!”
Vain cry! outnumbered, hand to hand
I felt the foeman’s heavy brand,
And reeled to earth—and bleeding there,
I felt unutt’rable despair,
For still I heard that plaint so wild,
“Oh, father! save thy injured child!”
As hungry panther from his tree
Darts on his victim, bold and free,
Or black crotalis, ere he spring,
Gives warning of the deadly sting,
Thus swift and sure in strength and mood
Ten warriors leapt from out the wood,
Upon the instant when, with pain,
I sank upon the dewy plain;
Each armed with arms of steel and dread,
With brave Clewalla at their head,
And at one shout, and at one bound,
They shake the trembling woods around.
They fight—they vanquish! words are vain,
They bring me safe my child again.
What boots it, that I here should tell,
Or those who ’scap’d, or those who fell?
Th’ assailants, merged in margin damp
And tangled brushwood, sought their camp.
Of those who fell, a liquid grave
We gave in Coosa’s yellow wave;
Which, soft and slow, and winding, bore
Its charge to ocean’s sand-bound shore.
Now sober silence once again
Began to hold her wonted reign;
My wounds, with simple skill, were bound,
My warriors lay reclining round,
And ere the hour of midnight chill,
All seemed as dreary, hush’d, and still,
As if the shout, or battle’s roar,
Had ne’er been heard upon that shore.
I sat within my tent, and mused,
(As oft in peaceful days I used,)
Upon the Spirit, great and high,
That rules the earth, the sea, the sky,
And that mysterious power and will
That warrants man still man to kill,
Sends powers and nations to and fro,
And fills the earth with strife and woe.
I thought upon my own wild kin,
And all their wand’rings, want, and sin,
And that untoward fate that gave,
Profuse, their bodies to the grave,
And seemed to set them in array,
For Saxon arms to drive and slay.
I cast my eye in thought profound,
On that dear circle slumb’ring round,
And mark’d th’ unoccupied recess
A son, a father, once could press;
And last bethought me of the fate
And juncture of my own estate:
Weak, wounded, foiled, and sore distrest—
Of friends bereav’d—by foemen prest—
Sad, bitter thoughts my heart control,
A dreamy madness steeps my soul,
Or wake or sleeping wist I not,
By whom environ’d, whom forgot;
Unreal scenes before me rise,
And visions pass before my eyes.
Methought I looked upon the sea,
And low, dark waves, not large nor free,
Came rolling in towards the shore,
With scarce a pebble dash, or roar,
Then larger grew, and louder sound,
Till one wide tumult rings around.
I looked again—a monster bear,
With claws of steel, and fiery hair,
Emerged from out the deep—his head,
Two polished horns of brass o’erspread,
And at his side a leader stood,
Of visage pale,—a full-plum’d hood
Danced o’er his brows, and in his hand
He held a sharp and shining brand.
I looked again, and from a tree,
A beauteous bird sang joyfully;
A ray of light from either eye
Shot forth in bright tranquillity,
Illuminating all the wood,
Within whose ample disk I stood.
Yet once again my view I cast;
Another changing vision past:
A fleecy cloud came from its height,
And stood before my wond’ring sight,
And parting, like two banners drawn,
A figure stept upon the lawn,
In size, and color, dress and air
Like my own kindred—but more fair.
I, wondering much what these should bode,
Put question meet—he answer’d—“God,
Whom once thy sires, on burning sands,
In other years and other lands
Most truly served, hath doomed thy race
To melt before the white-man’s face,
To fail in battle, and in store,
A scorn—a by-word on the shore;
For ye from his commands have turn’d,
And ye unholy fires have burn’d,
And with new altars and abodes
Set up and worship’d other gods,
And through unholy rites and sin,
In word and deed become unclean;
And for a season he hath given
Your nations to the wrath of heaven,
By divers men from foreign climes,
Who loathe your waywardness and crimes,
And congregate from far and near
To worship God in spirit here.”
’Tis well, I said; but tell me true,
What bodes this vision to my view?
It comes with a prophetic air,
But can I see the Red Race there?
“The little waves which erst thou spy’d,
Calm and unruffled,” he replied,
“Denote the earliest flag unfurl’d,
Advent’rous in this western world;
Whence gaining strength, in heart and hand,
The stranger spreads along the strand,
Like tumbling waves, whose onward way
No human force can check or stay.
The monster rising from the sea,
Imports dominion—once by thee
In peace and war triumphant sway’d,
But now to other hands convey’d;
His horns of brass and claws of steel,
A more obdurate power reveal;
His altered, red and fiery hair,
Denotes unnumbered means of war,
Complex inventions, sharp and true,
Such as thy fathers never knew,
Whereby the rule at first he gains,
And then with growing power maintains;
The leader is that iron race,
Who drive thee on, from place to place,
And long have driv’n, and long shall drive,
The waning, scattered, Indian hive,
Till they forsake th’accursed road,
And turn to virtue, peace, and God.
Then shall they quit the forest gloom,
The sceptre and the plough resume,
Renounce all base, revengeful ires,
Rebuild the altars, light the fires,
And cherish every sweet employ
Denoted by the bird of joy,
Whose beaming eyes, with stellar light,
Shall chase away barbaric night,
And teach thy race in holy lays
To sing the great Elohim’s praise.”