Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega: A Tale of the Creek War. Henry Rowe Schoolcraft

Nature’s lone forsaken child! Wand’ring born and wand’ring bred, Forest school’d and forest fed— Turn thy quick revolving glance, O’er yon water’s bright expanse. See—along the purple sky, See the billows looming high; Not in rage as (if aright Men report the wild affright,) Oft with fear too sorely true, Thy advent’rous kinsmen view, But with long and lab’ring swells, That of lulling tempest tells; Seest thou? near the horizon dim, Shadowy form upon its brim, Dun and small—that closer scann’d, Main and margin, should be land. Tell!—for by thy lifted eye, Well I ken thou read’st the sky— Tell me!—in its shadowy forms Is there sunshine—is there storms? Seest thou there, a spirit mild, Or the fiend of waters wild, Who shall make to-morrow’s wave, Many a hapless hunter’s grave, And along the yellow strand, Raise their mounds amid the sand? Or to thy well-practised eye, Is the god of south winds nigh, With his soft, ethereal balms, Whisp’ring peace and breathing calms? Say, shall mortal blade essay, O’er yon waves a tranquil way On the morrow—spirit blest! Shall it speed toward the west, And the genii of the strand, Waft the vent’rous bark from land, With a breeze and with a smile, To yon dim-discovered isle?

      MONGAZID.[2]

      Listen, white man! go not there; Unseen spirits stalk the air! Though the sky be clear and calm, And the south-west winnow balm— Though each wave be smooth and fair, Be thou cautioned—go not there! Misty forms, that walk the wind, Guard the treasures there enshrined; Hungry birds their influence lend, Snakes defy, and kites defend: There, the star-eyed panther prowls, And the wolf in hunger howls; There, the speckled adder breeds, And the mighty canieu feeds; Spirits prompt them—fiends incite— They are eager for the fight, And are thirsting, night and day, On the human heart to prey: Be they gods, or be they not, Touch not thou the sacred spot.

      ETHWALD.

      Tell me, red man! old and hoar, Dweller on Igomee’s[3] shore! Wherefore bound by spell or wile, Spirit guarded, is yon isle? Is there not embowelled there Many a gem of lustre rare— Glow there not, in hidden mine, Jewel stones of ray divine— Ore resplendent—crystal bright, That illume the cavern-night? Or, along the mystic strand, Massy piles of golden sand? Tell me, hunter! wilt thou not Guide me to the treasur’d spot? Arms, with Europe’s skill prepared, Shall the daring deed reward; Bands shall deck thee, feathers bless, And the pride of Albion dress, With Columbia’s banner wide, And a chieftain’s plate beside.

      MONGAZID.

      Listen, white man! Moons have past Since this earth was all a waste: Rains had drenched it—thunders rent— Winds demolished—waters spent— And the ocean, black and still, Slumbered deep o’er every hill, And not one ling’ring beam of light Illum’d the vast and sullen night. ’Twas then the spirit of the sky, In mercy hung yon lamps on high— Sun, moon and stars—and by their light Expelled the dread chaotic night: Then clothed he hills and vales with trees, And stated bounds to lakes and seas; Then sent he bird and beast in woods, And fish in all our limpid floods, And creatures small, of foot and wing, And every living, breathing thing:— Last sent he man—(a barb’rous race, From whom my long descent I trace,) As lord o’er all—and thus benign, Addressed the parent of our line.

      To thee I give these smiling woods, These lofty hills, and peopled floods, Filled with all needful game, and blest For thy maintainance, peace and rest. I give thee bow, I give thee spear, To dart the fish, and fell the deer; I give thee bark full light to sweep O’er the broad stream and billowy deep; I give thee skins for thy attire; To shade thee, woods; to warm thee, fire; More need’st thou not, nor covet more, And peace her joys shall round thee pour. But touch not gold; the tempter fly, Or all thy kin shall droop and die; For in that potent evil pent, Lurk envy, pain, and discontent; And luxury—of life the bane— And woe, with all her haggard train.

      Listen, white man! Dreamest thou My soul could e’er descend so low, To sell my country, life, and line, For any frail reward of thine? Or break the Sire-of-life’s command, By treading yonder sacred strand? My fare is scant; my roof is low; My country cold, and deep my woe, And every moon that gilds yon hill, Sees growing want and growing ill! But scantier still must be my meal, And keener woes my bosom feel, A sharper winter chill our sky, And louder tempests rage on high, Gaunt famine howl along the plain, And every limb be rack’d with pain, Ere I compromit heaven’s decree, By touching gold, or guiding thee.

      ETHWALD.

      Man of the woods! thy fancies seem Like some distemper’d midnight dream; Wild and devoid of reason. Vain Are all thy fears of gold or gain! Not more vain the infant’s call To the starry skies to fall; Or the fear this ocean-lake O’er yon cliffs its way shall take, If a single pebble-trace Circles in its glassy face.

      MONGAZID.

      Wealth is a curse, our old men said, [Their wisdom speaks, though they be dead,] Wealth is a curse, and all its trust A breath of wind—a heap of dust: ’Tis here—’tis gone! told or untold— And Mystery is my name for gold. We have been pining, since we knew The wonders ye could make it do— But find with cavil, years, and time, It is the white man’s curse and crime. Of old, our fathers held it good To deal in shells, and rove the wood; And had no fear of scaith or storm, With food, and skins to keep them warm. But ye, with your unhallowed gain, Have burned our forests from the plain, Causing our hope—our game—to fly, And making life itself a lie.

      ETHWALD.

      Know! thou man of suff’ring proud, Ills that press, and woes that cloud! Know, that gold doth hold a charm Want to banish, care disarm— To dispel the father’s fears, And suppress kind woman’s tears. Gold ensures the ready meal, And the joys the lib’ral feel, In the palace, or the cot, Fam’d, applauded, or forgot. Oft its peace-inspiring power Gilds fair virtue’s evening hour— Oft, at stern-eyed power’s command, Renovates a drooping land— Opening, by a blest employ, Founts of noble, lasting joy: From its toil-impelling springs, Commerce spreads her daring wings; Art uprears the public dome, Agriculture treads her loom, And a thousand pleasures stand To obey its potent wand. It is not wealth that ills produce— So sages write—but its abuse.

      MONGAZID.

      Yet, is the sweet with bitter blent, And all without that boon—content! Else hadst thou not quit friend and home, In these unmeasured wilds to roam; Or boldly dared this forest-sea For gains, that still thy grasp shall flee— Or proffered me thy valued pelf To sell my gods—my peace—myself!

      ETHWALD.

      Thou wouldst shun the white man’s joy, Lest there should be slight alloy: Know, to mortal is not given Joy unmixed, by righteous heaven: Death and sorrow, toil and woe, All must dread, and all must know. But me thinks thy purpose stern, That would neither teach nor learn, Give nor guide, remit or feel, Doth some secret power reveal— Power that doth thy being sway, And thou must, perforce, obey! Is it pride of hunter fame, Azid’s art, or Azid’s name? Is it dread of fate severe, Is it hope, or is it fear?

      MONGAZID.

      Fear of mortal shaft or ill, Foeman’s ire or foeman’s skill— Dread of pain or dread of woe, Azid’s heart can never know! It hath breasted famine drear, And the jagged flinty spear, Warrior’s wrath, or wizard’s sign, Nor doth dread the force of thine!

      ETHWALD.

      Wizard am I not, nor part, Read or know of such foul art, False and visionary. There, Wrapt in his robes of holy care, Behold yon pilgrim, early gray, Companion of my toilsome way, As now along the desert strand, With sober tread, he marks the sand— E’en now his lips the skies implore, Thy long-lost people to restore; To lead their steps where joys invite, And love, and truth, and life, and light! Disciple he, severe and high, Of the great ruler of the sky, To thee but known by thunders loud, The rushing wind, the fire-lit cloud; But to our fathers, sage and eld, By holy word and book revealed. If aught from fiend, or spirit’s wile Thou fearest on the desert isle, His simple, solemn, sacred pray’r Shall guard and guide and bless thee there.

      OSCAR.

      The fear from which you fly, is this— You would not make but find your bliss. But so God ruleth not his people. He Hath so hewn out our destiny, And linked it with our own free will, That means with ends must tally still. The bliss for which