| THE MYSTERIOUS MUSIC. |
| |
| AN INDIAN LEGEND. |
| |
| I. |
| |
Where the silver Pascagoula
Gives its tribute to the sea,
Spreads a bay, upon whose borders
Once there dwelt the bold and free.
There is not a lovelier inlet,
On Columbia's southern shore;
None so strongly by tradition
Linked unto the days of yore.
True, the men were forest-dwellers,
Untaught children of the wild;
But a holy love of freedom,
In their hearts dwelt undefiled.
Martyrs true they were, and noble,
As the great Leonidas
Led to die, for Greece, and glory,
In Thermopylæ's famed pass,
They have left a noble lesson,
Simple, stirring, and sublime,
Of their hatred of oppression,
To the men of ev'ry clime.
True, no poet, nor historian,
Tells the story how they died;
But tradition's hand hath snatched it
From oblivion's whelming tide;
And the waters whence they perished,
Still their death song wild retain,
And the gentle air of evening
Often wakes the mournful strain.
Sailing once upon these waters,
With an aged, white haired man,
He began the strange, wild story,
And 'twas thus the legend ran. |
| |
| II. |
| |
"Hear you not that strain of sadness,
Gently stealing o'er the wave;
Like a requiem wild, and solemn,
Breathed above a loved one's grave?"
List'ning, soon I heard it swelling,
'Mid the pauses of the oar;
And I questioned, "friend pray tell me,
Comes that strain from off the shore?"
"No; it is unearthly music,
Mortal hand, nor voice, can wake
Strains like those, which from the waters,
On the ear so sadly break.
Long ago, the brave Biloxes
Dwelt upon the neighb'ring shore;
And the happy shouts of childhood
Rose about each wigwam door.
Where those blackened trunks are standing,
In those happy days was seen,
Spreading o'er those humble dwellings
The magnolia's arch of green.
Then, the maidens brown, yet comely,
To these shades would oft repair,
And with hearts, with love wild beating,
Meet their hunter lovers there.
Birds of sweetest note have warbled,
From each green and fragrant bough;
Buds for beauty thence been gathered;
But they're scathed and leafless now.
There, 'tis said, the bold Altama,
Noblest of the warriors true,
Came the chieftain's child, Anola,
Fairest of the fair, to woo.
None in all the tribe was braver,
Than the chief who sought a bride;
Never Indian girl was fairer,
Than the maiden by his side.
But she was an only daughter,
Her old father's chief delight;
And his lodge, if she were absent,
Would have lost its life and light.
But, at last, the chief consented,
And Altama took his bride,
Vowing ne'er to sever from her,
Until death should them divide. |
| |
| III. |
| |
"Torches now, throughout the village,
Like bright meteors swiftly glance,
To the green they light their bearers,
Where they join the nuptial dance.
Deftly now the dancers mingle,
How the flashing torches fly!
Some are swept in fiery circles;
Some are cast toward the sky.
Nor upon that joyous evening,
Was the voice of music mute,
Sweet as notes of wild birds singing,
Then was heard the Indian flute.
Maiden's voices, in the distance,
To its melancholy strain,
Uttered such wild, sweet responses,
That all paused to hear again.
Thus they stood, when, from the forest,
Other strains than those awoke--
Fearful foes had gathered round them;
On their ears the war-whoop broke.
'Twas the Pascagoula warriors,
Who in fearful numbers stood
Ready at their chieftain's signal,
To begin the work of blood.
Soon that signal dread was given,
Forth like panthers fierce they sprung
On that throng of fawn-like maidens,
Who but late so sweetly sung;
But the hearts of the Biloxes
Though surprised, still knew no fear,
Down they threw the bridal torches,
Up they snatched the bow and spear.
Then the voice of bold Altama
Swelling 'mid the strife arose,
Cheering to his chosen warriors,
Bearing terror to his foes. |
| |
| IV. |
| |
"On, my braves! the Pascagoulas
Oft have met you in the field,
You have ever been the victors,
Scorn then, even now to yield.
Nerveless arms direct their arrows--
Coward hearts beat in their breasts;
And your shouts of bold defiance
Shake with fear their waving crests.
Night they deemed would hide their terror,
But let true hearts follow me;
And, as ever, these false foemen,
Shall before us swiftly flee. |
| |
| V. |
| |
"Onward pressed the brave Altama,
Near him all his warriors stood; [541]
And their weapons soon were stained,
With the foul invader's blood.
Long, and well, this brave band battled,
'Gainst a far superior foe;
Woman's danger made them stronger,
Gave fresh vigor to each blow;
Maidens, matrons, helpless children,
Stood behind, like frightened deer:
As the fearful sounds of battle,
Smote upon each startled ear.
Sons, and sires, and husbands, lovers,
Were engaged in deadly strife,
And with ev'ry blow they thought of
Maiden, mother, sister, wife,
And they felt, that, if they yielded,
All these cherished ones must go,
Captives without hope of ransom,
To the wigwams of the foe.
Faster flew the deadly arrows--
Many brave Biloxes fell
Still they yielded not, but listen!
Whence arose that fearful yell?
'Twas another band of foemen;
Fresh for battle, and for blood,
Rushing on the helpless women,
Who behind the battle stood.
To the heart of every warrior,
Pierced their shrill, despairing cry;
And like lions, chafed and wounded,
Fiercely back they turned to die.
Like a storm, Altama leading,
Leaving ruin in their track,
Burst they on their new assailants,
And with fury drove them back;
Then they hurried the defenceless,
Where a rude entrenchment rose,
Near the margin of the waters,
To protect them from their foes.
Scarcely had they gained this refuge,
When above the solemn wood
Rose the waning moon, and shed her
Silver radiance o'er the flood.
Then they saw each other's faces--
Saw their number, oh! how few;
Only fifty, of five hundred,
Who the bow in battle drew,
And of this not one unwounded
Now remained; but of the foe
Fifteen hundred then were lying,
By the hand of death laid low.
These gazed in each other's faces,
But no light of hope was there;
Every brow bore one expression--
That of fixed yet stern despair:
For a thousand Pascagoulas
Closed them round, and could they hope,
Wounded as they were, and wearied,
With such fearful odds to cope?
Then stood forth the bold Altama,
Bleeding still from many a wound;
And in firm, unfaltering accents,
Spoke to those who stood around. |
| |
| VI. |
| |
"We met at day's decline, my braves,
A large and joyous band,
And now the remnant of our tribe,
We here at midnight stand.
Full many of our warriors true
Now strew the battle plain;
And we have fought, as men should fight,
But fought alas! in vain.
Though wounded, all your hearts I know
Will never brook to yield;
For ye the yoke as proudly scorn,
As flying from the field.
Your noble forms were never made
To tamely bend to those,
Who now with hatred in their hearts
Our little band enclose.
Where is our refuge then? the waves
Which murmur softly nigh,
Like spirits gently call the brave
In their embrace to die.
If here we fall, our scalp-locks soon
Will swell the foeman's pride;
And they will tell their eager youth
That we ignobly died.
Our women and our children too,
A weak, defenceless band,
Torn from their own loved homes away,
Will till the victor's land.
Oh! rather let these waters now
Around us darkly close;
And let our bodies, near the land
We loved in life, repose.
In death I'll be your leader still,
I'll lead into the wave,
Who by my side will first advance,
To freedom and a grave?' |
| |
| VII. |
| |
"Forth then sprang the fair Anola,
To the dauntless chieftain's side,
Saying, 'yield that sad sweet office,
To thine own, devoted bride,
True, thou art the mountain eagle,
I, the gentle, timid dove,
Yet I've felt my nature stronger,
Since thou gavest me thy love.' |
| |
| VIII. |
| |
Flashed the eye, of bold Altama,
As he raised the wild death song,
With his bride, he sought the waters
Followed by a mingled throng.
Wounded warriors, lovely maidens,
Tender wives, and children dear,
Formed that column, and there rose not
From their lips one note of fear!
But the words of bold defiance,
Ran throughout that dauntless band,
As if marching to a banquet,
They descended to the strand.
Bright the summer moon was shining,
O'er the still and placid wave,
When this tribe's last noble remnant,
Came to seek a welcome grave.
Louder swell their notes defiant,
As they through the waves advance,
Thoughts of freedom swell each bosom,
Prouder seems each haughty glance.
But the depths are reached, and silent
Sink they in their watery bed,
And the waves that murmur o'er them,
Sigh a requiem for the dead.
And the music, which at nightfall,
Oft comes stealing o'er the wave,
Is a strain, the waters rescued
From the death song of the brave." |
| AZIM. |
