Before the "Council Fire,"
Nor dared she utter a single word
To gain her heart's desire,
Until her savage master
First gave her leave to speak;
Nor dared she then to brave his will
Lest he his vengeance wreak!
Yet ever and anon there rose
A woman, whose proud soul
Ignored those self-created gods
And spurned their base control.
Such was the brave Tululah,
Whose spirit haunts this stream;
In a phantom barge it glides along,
Like a wraith in a troubled dream.
'Tis said she haunts this river,
Alone on a misty night,
And that each one who sees her
Is 'palled with strange affright!
And why she haunts this river
Is the burden of my tale,
And none who have a tender heart
But will her fate bewail.
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!
Now facing North, and East, and West,
They meet the savage foes,
Recruiting Charon's army
By every lusty blow;
But still they come in hideous swarms,
Like hounds let loose from hell,
Till, overborne by numbers,
Our bleeding heroes fell!
All honor to the gallant three,
Twelve braves in silence lay,
With gaping wounds and stony eyes,
To greet returning day!
While yet a score were nursing
Wounds which these heroes gave,
That signed their right to enter
Into an unwept grave!
Ocala ne'er again would scourge
Their country, far and near,
Nor wring from helpless innocence
An unavailing tear!
His death alone destroyed the boast
And stilled the raging flood
Of senseless pride and passion
That bathed his hands in blood!
But, alas, for human prowess,
These deeds but roused the ire
Of savage wretches, who now tried
To vent their spleen _with fire_!
Three stakes were now erected
And fagots heaped around,
While painted fiends in human shape
Exultant, sat aground.
They led the helpless captives forth,
With many a shout and hoot,
And drug them to their awful doom,
Less feeling than a brute!
And first they bound Hugh Cannon,
Whose descendants, love, you know,
I pointed out to you, last Fall,
When we were at the show.
They bound him to the cruel stake
Before his comrades' eyes,
Then scornfully they bade them mark
"How a paleface coward dies!"
Thank God his captors were deceived,
He smiled amid the flame!
And, with his fast expiring breath,
These words bequeathed to fame:
"To suffer in a noble cause
Is sweet beyond compare!
These greedy flames that lick my blood
But light a vision fair,
Where heroism and heroes sweep
The still resounding lyre,
Heaven's harmonies have quenched
The tortures of this fire!
"Tumultuous raptures 'round me roll
Heaven's pearly gates ajar!
My spirit soars on fleshless wing
Beyond the faintest star!
Oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair,
What sweet celestial glories shine,
The loved and lost of earlier years
Are _now_ forever mine!"
The savage horde in silence stood
And listened as he sang,
While even their untaught eyes could see
He suffered not a pang!
No yell triumphant smote his ear,
Awe silenced every tongue,
And many a heart beat faster
As he his requiem sung.
Then lionhearted Conway,
Beneath whose eagle eye
Even savage foes once trembled
Was offered up to die!
Defiant still 'mid writhing flames,
He heaped on them his scorn,
And, with true prophetic voice
He doomed their race unborn.
"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!
Slowly the doomed man drifted,
Yet faster, at each breath,
The quickening current bore him
To the open gates of death!
Yet still he slept; aye, slept and dreamed
Of the proud Creek's peerless flower
Who, for deathless love of him,
Had braved her nation's power.
Spurned her murdered siris corpse
And to his murderer clung!
Aye, on the spot that drank his blood,
Love's soothing ditties sung!
Dreamed of the eyes that flashed with fire
When his foeman dared draw nigh,
Yet softened into tenderness
At her lover's faintest sigh.
Dreams of the hand that sped the dart
That pierced the chieftain's breast,
Yet with such witching tenderness
Could tremble in caress!
Dreams of the heart that proudly braved
A nation's deadly hate,
Yet, at a lover's first command,
Would brook a martyr's fate!
Dreams of the hour when Tululah,
Who so bravely saved his life,
Shall desert her baffled kinsman
To become a white man's wife!
Dreams how he would love and prize her,
Shielding her with tenderest care,
Spending time, and life, and fortune
But to grant her lightest prayer.
But his dream is rudely broken,
And his blanched lip loudly calls,
For he hears the well known rumbling
Of this river's awful falls.
Life was sweet, death was so near,
And he so young to die!
No wonder that his trembling lips
Sought mercy from on high.
He bore ten thousand tortures
With every passing breath,
As he lay bound and helpless,
Gliding swiftly on to death.
He raised his clarion voice
Above the deafening roar;
Great heavens! can a human cry
Reach that resounding shore?
"Yes! Yes!" a once familiar voice
Calls loudly from that shore,
And a well known trapper woos time
To life and hope once more!
By an effort, born of hope renewed,
McCray sprang to his feet;
The trapper saw, his lariat flew,
His outstretched hands to greet.
"_Steady!_" the practical huntsman cried:
"Your peril is almost o'er;
Steady, for in a moment
Your foot shall press the shore!"
Then, as he drew the skiff ashore,
He recognized McCray,
But gazed in silent wonder
_For late raven locks were grey_!
And never, to his dying day,
Would McCray view the place
Where, in suspended agony,
He met death face to face!
He shuddered at an Indian's name,
And soon forgot the Queen,
Who once so bravely saved him
From a nation's senseless spleen.
He wooed and won a maiden
Whose blue eyes, like your own,
Held within their liquid depths,
Love's nectarine full blown,
And as I press your luscious lips
I praise thee, brave McCray,
Whose dauntless courage gave to me
The girl I hold today!
Oh, yes; forgive me, darling,
I did almost forget;
But how can mortal silence keep
By such sweet eyes beset?
Grant me the boon of one more kiss
And gaze into my face;
Light fancy by your radiant eyes,
Tululah's fate to trace!
Still let the pressure of your hand
Chain me in rapture to the earth,
For I must offer thoughts tonight
That ne'er before had birth!
No idle dreamer dares to pierce
The mystery of this stream,
Nor would I dare the bold emprise
Save that your wish I deem
The highest law my loving heart
Can now or ever know,
And 'neath the witchery of your smile
My raptured numbers glow!
My fancy soars on eager wing,
And will, perhaps, at last,
Gladly at your high behest
Unfold the misty past!
Tululah slept till evening shades
Had deepened into night,
And woke, alas! to find herself
Bereft of her brave knight.
Her Indian wit soon taught her
Oguchu was to blame,
And hastily she found him,
Her eyes and cheeks aflame!
"Oguchu knows your mission;
Your paleface lover fled
While Tululah's starlit eyes
Were wandering 'mid the dead.
He is not worthy of your love;
Let my sister choose a mate;
Oguchu's lodge is open,
Will my sister spurn her fate?"
"My paleface lover is a brave!"
Tululah proudly cried;
"_He_ never fled from friend or foe,
Oguchu, thou hast lied!
Thy double tongue is poison-tipped,
Thy words a coward's dart,
Before I clasp thy loathsome form
Let panthers rend my heart!
"Speak, coward, speak! where is my brave?
Tululah asks you where;
Speak, lest I summon by a word
The friends of earth and air
To tear your quivering limbs apart,
You lying, treacherous chief.
Speak the truth! you Indian dog,
The night is growing brief!"
The awestruck chief is conquered,
And tells, with bated breath,
Where last he saw him drifting,
Into the jaws of death!
Tululah heard, and wild despair
Hurled reason from her throne.
Low at her feet the wretches crouched,
Their treachery to atone!
"Up! Up, you cowards! Up, you knaves!
And lead me to the place.
Tululah's hand shall save him yet
Or curse your coward race!
'Tis mine to speak; yours, to obey;--
I am your Virgin Queen:--
I _swear_ to save my lover
Or _nevermore_ be seen!"
They led her to the river,
And, pointing to the place,
They stood like criminals abashed
Before the judge's face.
She spurned their pleading counsel,
And, springing in a boat,
She cast the oars from her
And set the skiff afloat!
Then, as she gazed adown the stream,
Her eyes were all aglow
With that deep yearning passion
Such hearts alone can know.
While sitting in the boat erect,
With an Indian's willowy grace,
She sang in tuneful numbers
A song time can't efface:
"I am coming, coming, coming,
Slowly drifting down the stream,
While my heart is yearning, yearning
For the idol of love's dream.
"I have left them--left them--left them!
Farewell, treacherous Indian race;
I can hear him calling, calling,
And I go to seek his face.
"Now I'm gliding, gliding, gliding!
And I hear the awful roar
Of the waters tumbling, tumbling,
Where no boat will need an oar!
"Now I'm rushing, rushing, rushing!
And the spray obscures my sight;
The angry waters leaping, leaping,
Chill me with a strange affright.
"Oh, I see him! see him--see him,
And I welcome death's alarms!
Oh! I'm swiftly falling, falling,
And I spring into his arms!"
Not a trace of boat or maiden
Could the savage searchers find,
And they fled the spot in terror,
Daring not to look behind!
Nor would they tarry near the river,
But moved their wigwam's far away;
No savage Creek would linger
Near the spot by night and day.
And tradition says her spirit
May be seen on nights like this,
When the heavy moon, mist-laden,
Greets the river with a kiss!
Not in vain will be our vigil
If Tululah knows tonight
In your precious veins is flowing
Genuine blood of her brave knight!
Look! Look! 'mid the river's silvery sheen
Tululah's Phantom Boat is seen,
While the air vibrates like a quivering lyre,
Touched by the hands of an angel Choir!
Oh, wondrous music soft and low,
Like rippling streamlets' gentle flow!
Oh, pathos laden, heart refrain,
No mortal lips can breathe that strain!
Immortal love! not even death
Can damp thy flame or chill thy breath!
Nay, while eternal ages roll,
'Tis thine to feed the hungry soul
With manna dipped in passion's fire,
True birthright of the heart's desire;
Blest food no mortal lips can take
And fail enrapturing bliss to wake!
Heaven's corner-stone, earth's chief delight.
Tululah's captive soul tonight
Is but living o'er the dream
Thou didst create beside this stream.
Her hapless fate all must deplore,
Self-sacrificed in days of yore;
And, could Tululah live again,
At least one heart would soothe her pain!
The legend may be overdrawn,
Yet 'tis not all a dream!
Nor will you ever say again:
"This is no haunted stream!"
Other eyes beside our own
Have seen the Phantom Boat,
And other ears than ours have heard
That wild, weird? music float!
But, precious little darling,
As I strain thee to my breast,
I am conscious you are weary,
Thus deprived of needful rest.
Let us hasten to thy cottage,
Parting with a lingering kiss;
Little Daisy, then, can slumber
And awake in perfect bliss!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_AN INITIAL ACROSTIC._
Hear, O hear the melting music pouring from inspired hearts!
In the race of life they stumbled, victims of temptation's darts.
Ruin's billows them engulfing, all their hopes and joys to blight;
And the scorpion lash of conscience scourges them by day and night!
Man has doomed them to a prison where shame's torrents hourly roll
Pouring every known affliction on the crushed and bleeding soul!
Every legal right has perished, every social tie is snapped!
Crushing Force is ever present, body mind and soul entrapped!
Kindness is a total stranger, human treatment rarely shown,
Man _is_ faultless when his fellow for a fault must needs atone!
Can such beings know the rapture Heaven decrees to poet souls?
Know they where to place the cymbals of the sounding lyre
Never yet has human malice stilled the music of the spheres!
In _the loathesome prison dungeon Heaven the sweetest music hears!_
Guilt or shame, or human anger, ne'er can fold the poet's wings.
Howsoever deep his anguish, still his heart exultant sings--
Tunes his lyre, still triumphant, and to you these pages brings!
[Illustration]
_ACROSTIC TRIBUTE TO
DR. H. R. PARKER._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
He towers above his fellow men, like some grand knight of old.
Endeavoring to right all wrong with spirit bold and free!
No craven fear usurps his soul, no task his spirit quails.
Religion to his soul is _love_, and love no wrong entails!
Ye who love eternal right and wish your fellows well
Refuse him not the meed of praise--'tis his our aches to quell!
Each heart within these prison walls that tests his wondrous skill
Unites to sing his praises and bless his generous will.
By kindly words he cheers the soul of those whom dread disease
Envelops in her mystic folds and gives each patient ease.
Naught caring for their praise or blame, he steers his course aright,
Proving duty, well performed, is matchless in its might.
And, tho' but a youth in years, his well instructed mind
Reveals all pathologic truth and practice well combined.
Kindly may the fates decree that he may rise to fame,
Ever free, as he is now, from error and from shame.
Refuse him naught of happiness and bless his honored name!
[Illustration]
_LINES TO MY WIFE._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Years and years have passed away
Since last we met, my darling wife;
Oft have I felt the tooth of pain
Gnaw at the vitals of my life.
The brow thy hand has oft caressed
With such sweet, hypnotic power,
The lines of care and grief has traced
And wrinkled, like a withered flower.
The dark brown locks you loved so well,
Now interspersed with silver thread,
Shows plainly that the march of time
Has left its footprints on my head.
The deep gray eyes that once could flash
With passion's fire, or melt in love,
Have lost the wanted fires of youth,
Like some poor offcast, limpsy glove.
Yet in my breast there beats a heart
That never will nor can grow old;
Thy image keeps its pulses warm
With love that never shall grow cold.
Thy grace and beauty won that heart
Long years ago, when thou wert young:
Thy gentle, generous, faithful care
Has bred a love I cannot tongue.
Heaven can grant no sweeter bliss,
To crown the evening of my life,
Than Iulu's sweet, enraptured kiss,
When time restores me to my wife.
_OUT OF THE DEPTHS._
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
In a cell of rock and iron,
Where remorse and shame environ,
Sat a convict sadly dreaming--
Dreaming of the days of yore.
Dreamed he of a land of flowers
Where, amid Love's smiling bowers,
He had spent such happy hours,
To memory ne'er so sweet before.
And he softly, fondly questioned:
"Shall I know such bliss once more?"
Hope made answer, "_Yes, once more!_"
In a home which love had founded,
Now by grief and care surrounded,
Sat a wife and mother, weeping,
Weeping for her prisoned swain.
Wept she o'er fate's mad endeavor,
That such loving hearts could sever,
With a blow, that seemed to never
Lose its agonizing pain;
And her cry arose to heaven:
"Father, shall we meet again?"
Mercy answered, "Once again."
Ope those doors of latticed iron,
Lift the clouds that now environ;
Faithfulness shall be rewarded--
Love the victory hath won.
Learn that I, your God, am heeding
Prayers that rise from hearts now bleeding,
And my hand is ever leading,
Tho' the clouds obscure the sun.
Bows my heart in adoration--
Shall my lips repeat Amen?
Hope and faith repeat! "Amen."
[Illustration]
_ELLA REE'S REVENGE._
Beside Saluda's silver stream,
Where flowers nod and poets dream,
A cabin stood, in days gone by,
Whose history should never die.
Here lived and led a blameless life,
Brave Hayward and his peerless wife,
With three sweet pledges of that love,
Cradled on earth, but born above.
Surrounding them, on every hand,
Was the Red man's native land.
No paleface, save themselves, ever dared
To live in wild these Indians shared.
Treacherous alike in peace and war,
The Seminole obeyed no law
Save one he spake with bated breath:
"Traitors shall die a coward's death!"
The haughty chief who led this tribe,
Fear could not daunt nor favor bribe;
And this lone settler, living here,
Knew white man never dared come near.
He Caucanoe's heart had won
By a kindness nobly done,
In rescuing from a watery grave
The favorite child of this fierce brave.
A frail canoe--swamped in mid stream:
A father's cry--a maiden's scream;
A hunter bearing a maid ashore,
A volume writ would tell no more.
"The land beside this murmuring stream
Thy future home, brave paleface, deem,
And on Caucanoe's word depend,
No Indian dares molest my friend!"
"Yours 'twas to save Caucanoe's pride,
Mine be it to protect your bride;
If here a future you would seek,
I listen: Let my brother speak."
"Great Chief! your words, so kind and true,
Fall on my ears like evening dew;
Ere the buds begin to swell
Your brother 'mid your tribe shall dwell."
So Hayward built, with eager haste,
As best befits a woman's taste,
A cabin palace, reared by art,
Each room as secret as your heart.
Here they lived and tilled the ground,
The happiest pair for miles around;
The Indians swarmed around their door
With useful gifts to swell their store.
Caucanoe often sought their door
And played with the children, o'er and o'er.
He brought them many a curious toy,
Their happy childhood to employ.
The winsome sprite, who sat on his knee,
Pleased him most of the guileless three;
Her limped eyes and golden hair
Caucanoe thought divinely fair.
As the happy years flew swiftly by,
Beneath Caucanoe's watchful eye,
Paralee grew, with rapid pace,
Into a maid of faultless grace.
Caucanoe loved this lovely child
With a passion fierce, and deep, and wild,
Yet hopeless, he feared, that love would be,
Since naught could bridge the raging sea
Of racial and tribal pride,
That lay between them, deep and wide;
And well he knew another's soul
Brooked naught on earth save his control.
King Ulca's daughter, the proud Ella Ree,
Graceful and lithe as a willow tree,
With eyes and hair like the raven's wing,
And voice as soft as the babbling spring,
Had sought him for her wigwam brave,
Weeping o'er his late wife's grave;
And well he knew the tears she shed,
By tribal law their bodies wed.
True love for her he could not feel,
Yet such a fact dared not reveal;
His squaw she was alone in name
And never to his wigwam came.
Another love, oh, fateful thought!
With direful misery doubly fraught,
Surged and tossed within his soul
Until it spurned his late control.
At last he sought her much loved side
And begged her to become his bride.
The maiden heard and laughed outright,
And thus let loose the fiends of night
That of late had lain at rest
Within Caucanoe's savage breast.
Now, naught could stay this rising ire
Save to light the Council Fire.
At last among his braves he stood,
Like some monarch of the wood;
While burning words flowed from his tongue,
That showed how deep his heart was wrung.
The Council heard and thus decreed:
"Our land from paleface dogs be freed.
Tomorrow night the proud paleface
Shall rue Caucanoe's late disgrace!"
"'Tis well," the haughty chief replied;
"Who scorns to be Caucanoe's bride
Shall feel a living flame of fire
Quench the last spark of life's desire!"
But, ere the morrow's sun had set,
Awakening love brought deep regret.
Love fought the savage till he fell,
And Pity's tears began to well.
He crept the cabin light within,
And there confessed his double sin.
"'Tis done," he cried, "you shall not die;
The boat is ready; up, and fly!
"Saluda's stream shall guide you right,
Caucanoe lays to die tonight!
Once you are free, I die content.
Nor deem the blow untimely sent."