A TRIBUTE TOCAPT. GEORGE W. HESS.BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.Almost a decade thou hast battled with a patriot's band,Whose first duty is devotion to their native land;And no comrade but is willing, with a ready mind,To declare thee brave and loyal to all mankind.In thy country's hour of peril, on the battle field,Thou wert ever more than willing all her rights to shield,And, with true and loyal purpose, battled for the right,Till secession's traitorous banner sunk in endless night!Duty's path to thee is glory, glory easy won;For a task so oft repeated is quite easy done;Yet no one can ever chide, for thy generous heartNe'er will crush the poor and helpless with oppression's dart.Every prisoner knows and likes thee, for thy friendly waysMust attract their close attention and excite their praise;And the few who know thee better, as a man of heart,Would desire no nobler mission than to take thy part.May you live in peace and plenty, happy with your own,Till Jehovah's love shall gather 'round His august throneAll who, like you, honest comrade, follows heaven's planAnd respects the rules of virtue and the rights of man.
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
Almost a decade thou hast battled with a patriot's band,
Whose first duty is devotion to their native land;
And no comrade but is willing, with a ready mind,
To declare thee brave and loyal to all mankind.
In thy country's hour of peril, on the battle field,
Thou wert ever more than willing all her rights to shield,
And, with true and loyal purpose, battled for the right,
Till secession's traitorous banner sunk in endless night!
Duty's path to thee is glory, glory easy won;
For a task so oft repeated is quite easy done;
Yet no one can ever chide, for thy generous heart
Ne'er will crush the poor and helpless with oppression's dart.
Every prisoner knows and likes thee, for thy friendly ways
Must attract their close attention and excite their praise;
And the few who know thee better, as a man of heart,
Would desire no nobler mission than to take thy part.
May you live in peace and plenty, happy with your own,
Till Jehovah's love shall gather 'round His august throne
All who, like you, honest comrade, follows heaven's plan
And respects the rules of virtue and the rights of man.
My Lawyer.When grappled in the law's embrace,Who first betrayed an anxious faceAnd fain would shield me from disgrace?My Lawyer.Who told me I should not confess,That he would all my wrongs redressAnd set me free from all distress?My Lawyer.When, sick in jail, I senseless lay,Who took my watch and case away,Lest prowling thieves on me should prey?My Lawyer.Who to my wealth tenacious clung,And for me wagged his oily tongue,And at my foes hot embers flung?My Lawyer.Who told me he was dreadful smartAnd knew the law-books all by heart,And always took his client's part?My Lawyer.Who, in the court, with peerless pride,My rights affirmed, my guilt denied,And swore the State's attorney lied?My Lawyer.And when twelve men, in one compound,For me a guilty verdict found,Who came to stanch the bleeding wound?My Lawyer.Who said my time within the wallWould be exceeding brief and small,The minimum, or none at all?My Lawyer.And when the judge my doom proclaimed,And three long years of exile named,Who looked indignant and ashamed?My Lawyer.When, at the sheriff's stern command,I for the train was told to stand,Who longest shook and squeezed my hand?My Lawyer.Who, when he had me safe confined,No more concerned his crafty mind,Nor was, for me, to grief inclined?My Lawyer.Who closed the mortgage on my lot,And drove my family from my cot,And left them homeless on the spot?My Lawyer.Who, when of prison clothes I'm stripped,And from these walls am homeward shipped,Will get himself immensely whipped?My Lawyer.[Written by Mr. George Gilbert, who died on the 9th of June, A. D. 1890.]
When grappled in the law's embrace,Who first betrayed an anxious faceAnd fain would shield me from disgrace?
My Lawyer.
Who told me I should not confess,That he would all my wrongs redressAnd set me free from all distress?
My Lawyer.
When, sick in jail, I senseless lay,Who took my watch and case away,Lest prowling thieves on me should prey?
My Lawyer.
Who to my wealth tenacious clung,And for me wagged his oily tongue,And at my foes hot embers flung?
My Lawyer.
Who told me he was dreadful smartAnd knew the law-books all by heart,And always took his client's part?
My Lawyer.
Who, in the court, with peerless pride,My rights affirmed, my guilt denied,And swore the State's attorney lied?
My Lawyer.
And when twelve men, in one compound,For me a guilty verdict found,Who came to stanch the bleeding wound?
My Lawyer.
Who said my time within the wallWould be exceeding brief and small,The minimum, or none at all?
My Lawyer.
And when the judge my doom proclaimed,And three long years of exile named,Who looked indignant and ashamed?
My Lawyer.
When, at the sheriff's stern command,I for the train was told to stand,Who longest shook and squeezed my hand?
My Lawyer.
Who, when he had me safe confined,No more concerned his crafty mind,Nor was, for me, to grief inclined?
My Lawyer.
Who closed the mortgage on my lot,And drove my family from my cot,And left them homeless on the spot?
My Lawyer.
Who, when of prison clothes I'm stripped,And from these walls am homeward shipped,Will get himself immensely whipped?
My Lawyer.
[Written by Mr. George Gilbert, who died on the 9th of June, A. D. 1890.]
A Sad Warning.BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.In prison cell, at early twilight,Smoking Foesters "Best Cigar,"Sat a convict, little dreamingAught his perfect bliss could mar.Round the cell-block, slowly ambling,Came a "Screw," on mischief bent,And his wide, expanded nostrilsQuickly inhaled the welcome scent.Wave on wave, thro' latticed iron,Smoky clouds rose thick and high,And the happy convict murmured:"Go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!"But the cloudlets, incense laden,Lingered near the oaken floor,Till the "Screw," with cat-like motion,Stood before the smoker's door.In the spittoon, charred and sputtering,Lay the smoker's joy and pride;And the "Screw," exultant, murmured:"Stackhouse willthis casedecide."Morning dawned. The "cellar agent"Bore the trembling wretch awayTo a cellar, cold and gloomy,Where the tools of torture lay.Blows and shrieks alternate sounded,And a voice from near the floorMurmured: "Stackhouse!mercy! MERCY!!P-l-e-a-s-e, sir;I will smoke no more!"From the cellar, shorn and shaven,Skulked the cowering "con." away;And he smokes—but, Oh! how watchfulIs that victim, who can say?All ye inmates, take the warning,Gushing from a brother's heart:He who smokes within these portalsFor the dire offensemaysmart!
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
In prison cell, at early twilight,Smoking Foesters "Best Cigar,"
Sat a convict, little dreamingAught his perfect bliss could mar.
Round the cell-block, slowly ambling,Came a "Screw," on mischief bent,
And his wide, expanded nostrilsQuickly inhaled the welcome scent.
Wave on wave, thro' latticed iron,Smoky clouds rose thick and high,
And the happy convict murmured:"Go, ye cloudlets, greet the sky!"
But the cloudlets, incense laden,Lingered near the oaken floor,
Till the "Screw," with cat-like motion,Stood before the smoker's door.
In the spittoon, charred and sputtering,Lay the smoker's joy and pride;
And the "Screw," exultant, murmured:"Stackhouse willthis casedecide."
Morning dawned. The "cellar agent"Bore the trembling wretch away
To a cellar, cold and gloomy,Where the tools of torture lay.
Blows and shrieks alternate sounded,And a voice from near the floor
Murmured: "Stackhouse!mercy! MERCY!!P-l-e-a-s-e, sir;I will smoke no more!"
From the cellar, shorn and shaven,Skulked the cowering "con." away;
And he smokes—but, Oh! how watchfulIs that victim, who can say?
All ye inmates, take the warning,Gushing from a brother's heart:
He who smokes within these portalsFor the dire offensemaysmart!
ACROSTIC TOJ. C. LANGENBERGER,Captain of the O. P. Night Watch.BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.Just to all men, to all men kind and true;Conspicuous as a giant yet comely to the view;Loved by all who know him, trusted everywhere;Always more than willing to ease his fellow's care;Never harsh or cruel, never false or base;Going in and coming out among those in disgrace,Earning from each prisoner's heart the meed of honest praise;None condemn his actions, none despise his ways;By his children reverenced, by his wife adored;Every friend is welcome at his ample board;Rich in all that makes aman, poor alone in hate;God of Mercy bless the man who nightly guards our fate;Ever may he fill the post that wisdom has assigned,Ruling all, as now he does, by strength of heart and mind.
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
Just to all men, to all men kind and true;
Conspicuous as a giant yet comely to the view;
Loved by all who know him, trusted everywhere;
Always more than willing to ease his fellow's care;
Never harsh or cruel, never false or base;
Going in and coming out among those in disgrace,
Earning from each prisoner's heart the meed of honest praise;
None condemn his actions, none despise his ways;
By his children reverenced, by his wife adored;
Every friend is welcome at his ample board;
Rich in all that makes aman, poor alone in hate;
God of Mercy bless the man who nightly guards our fate;
Ever may he fill the post that wisdom has assigned,
Ruling all, as now he does, by strength of heart and mind.
She Loves Me Yet.BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.Amid the cares and griefs of life,One precious thought I'll ne'er forget,I have a fond and faithful wife,For darling Lulu loves me yet.The bitterest pang that earth can giveCan never make my soul regretThe fact that I on earth can live,While Lulu says she loves me yet.The sweetest joy my heart could knowWould prove a diamond yet unset,Whose radiant light could never glow,Like this sweet thought, "She loves me yet."Should grief deluge my troubled soulTill every hour some care beset,I could defy its stern controlWhile murmuring, "Lulu loves me yet."Should every friend I have on earthEach vow of loyalty forget,I could survive the cruel blow,Since darling Lulu loves me yet.Should earth with one accord combine,Sweet Lulu's influence to beset,It would not change my constant mind,If I but felt "She loves me yet."I care no sweeter boon in life,Nor will my heart its choice regret;I only long to meet that wifeWho truly says she loves me yet.
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Amid the cares and griefs of life,One precious thought I'll ne'er forget,
I have a fond and faithful wife,For darling Lulu loves me yet.
The bitterest pang that earth can giveCan never make my soul regret
The fact that I on earth can live,While Lulu says she loves me yet.
The sweetest joy my heart could knowWould prove a diamond yet unset,
Whose radiant light could never glow,Like this sweet thought, "She loves me yet."
Should grief deluge my troubled soulTill every hour some care beset,
I could defy its stern controlWhile murmuring, "Lulu loves me yet."
Should every friend I have on earthEach vow of loyalty forget,
I could survive the cruel blow,Since darling Lulu loves me yet.
Should earth with one accord combine,Sweet Lulu's influence to beset,
It would not change my constant mind,If I but felt "She loves me yet."
I care no sweeter boon in life,Nor will my heart its choice regret;
I only long to meet that wifeWho truly says she loves me yet
ACROSTIC TRIBUTE TOHARRY SMITH.BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.He is like the god, Appollo, when in days of oldAll the hearts of Greece could conquer, yet despised their gold.Rich in manhood, health and youth, he is ever freeReady to assist his brother whatsoever his need may be.You can trust him freely, fully, with your love or gold,Since his love of truth and honor never can grow cold.May he ever do his duty and to all be kind,It is but the noble hearted who can rule the mind,Trusting, still, his love of country and his love for man,He may rest assured Heaven will endorse his plan.
BY G. W. VAN WEIGHS.
He is like the god, Appollo, when in days of old
All the hearts of Greece could conquer, yet despised their gold.
Rich in manhood, health and youth, he is ever free
Ready to assist his brother whatsoever his need may be.
You can trust him freely, fully, with your love or gold,
Since his love of truth and honor never can grow cold.
May he ever do his duty and to all be kind,
It is but the noble hearted who can rule the mind,
Trusting, still, his love of country and his love for man,
He may rest assured Heaven will endorse his plan.
The Phantom Boat.BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.Two lovers once sat dreamingOf scenes o'ergrown by years;Sweet Daisy's eyes were eloquentWith girlhood's pleading tears;Her little hand was lyingConfidingly in mine,While her silvery voice pleaded:"Dear one, awake the Nine!""Yes, darling, I will rhyme for you;What legend shall I drew!Shall I now fold you in my armsAnd, drifting down life's stream,'Mid singing birds and nodding flowers,Pour forth my soul in love—In accents soft and tender—As the cooing of a dove"?Or shall I tell you, dearest one,Why yonder's rippling streamFirst gained the name "Tululah"In an age that's now a dream?Well, now, pillow your head upon my breast,The legend is weird and wild;I fear me much its harrowing scenesWill shock, thee, gentle child.Will you listen, while we're watchingFor the far-famed Phantom Boat?Perhaps the tale will lead usTo catch the first faint noteOf Tululah's wondrous musicAs she floats down this stream,For, I assure you, darling,This legend is no dream.Where now we sit, in days gone by,The stealthy panther crept,And bears and wolves in horrid hordesTheir tireless vigils kept;Turkey, deer and beaverWere scattered far and wide,And here the lordly savage stalkedIn all his pristine pride;The Creeks then ruled this forest,From Suwanee to the sea;—A haughty, bold and cruel race,Cunning, treacherous, wild and free!To hunt and fish, and boast and fightWere the duties of a brave,While woman—alas! sweet womanWas but a cowering slave!No grant had she to breathe her wrongsBefore the "Council Fire,"Nor dared she utter a single wordTo gain her heart's desire,Until her savage masterFirst gave her leave to speak;Nor dared she then to brave his willLest he his vengeance wreak!Yet ever and anon there roseA woman, whose proud soulIgnored those self-created godsAnd 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 herIs 'palled with strange affright!And why she haunts this riverIs the burden of my tale,And none who have a tender heartBut will her fate bewail.Tululah was Ocala's child,To whom the Creeks ascribeThe name of the boldest leaderThat 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 orphanAt the fatal hour of birth!The superstitious savageDeemed 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,Athercommand would fight.Her raven locks and soulful eyes,Her faultless form and peerless face,And voice of wondrous melodyAwed and charmed her race.She reigned an undisputed Queen,Allher mandate must obey;And even the fierce OcalaWas obedient to her sway.Yet even she was powerlessTo stay the raging floodOf tireless, deathless savage hateThat sought the white man's blood.Ocala's hatred of the whitesWas known both far and near;Brave hunters spake his name with awe,And women in trembling fear!At last he grew so treacherousNo white man dared come nigh,Till a trio of gallant huntersDeterminedhe should die!They knew 'twas a dangerous missionOn which their steps was bent,Yet the prayers of honest settlersTheir true hearts courage lent.As they neared the sleeping village,Where Ocala awaited his doom,They flitted like weird spectresIn the silent midnight gloom!There, spread before their vision,Five hundred wigwams lay;A savage guerdon of defenseFor him they sought to slay.To the silent village centerOur gallant hunters crept,To the door of the largest wigwam,Where proud Ocala slept.Stepping across the prostrate formOf 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 braveWhen 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 breathAwaiting the savage onslaught,Determined to sell their livesTo the service of their countryAnd the freedom of men's wives;While pitying Heaven aids themBy the darkness of the night,Since not a star will lend its aidTo guide their foes aright!Now facing North, and East, and West,They meet the savage foes,Recruiting Charon's armyBy 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 nursingWounds which these heroes gave,That signed their right to enterInto an unwept grave!Ocala ne'er again would scourgeTheir country, far and near,Nor wring from helpless innocenceAn unavailing tear!His death alone destroyed the boastAnd stilled the raging floodOf senseless pride and passionThat bathed his hands in blood!But, alas, for human prowess,These deeds but roused the ireOf savage wretches, who now triedTo vent their spleenwith fire!Three stakes were now erectedAnd fagots heaped around,While painted fiends in human shapeExultant, 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 stakeBefore 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 causeIs sweet beyond compare!These greedy flames that lick my bloodBut light a vision fair,Where heroism and heroes sweepThe still resounding lyre,Heaven's harmonies have quenchedThe tortures of this fire!"Tumultuous raptures 'round me rollHeaven's pearly gates ajar!My spirit soars on fleshless wingBeyond the faintest star!Oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair,What sweet celestial glories shine,The loved and lost of earlier yearsArenowforever mine!"The savage horde in silence stoodAnd listened as he sang,While even their untaught eyes could seeHe suffered not a pang!No yell triumphant smote his ear,Awe silenced every tongue,And many a heart beat fasterAs he his requiem sung.Then lionhearted Conway,Beneath whose eagle eyeEven savage foes once trembledWas offered up to die!Defiant still 'mid writhing flames,He heaped on them his scorn,And, with true prophetic voiceHe doomed their race unborn."Rejoice! rejoice! ye howling fiends,Distort your hideous face,Soon the white man's wrath shall sweepFrom earth your blood-stained race,While shining fields and cities fairAttest the white man's power,You accursed Creeks shall beTradition's useless dower!"Now comes your own ancestor,The gallant, brave McCray,Who planned this glorious campaignAnd 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 savageHis kind assistance lent.Yet little dreamed he, at this hour,One heart amid that throngStill beat responsive to his own,Attuned to love's mad song!Yet, as they bound him to the stakeAnd raised the flaming brand,The Chief that held it fell a corpse,Killed by a woman's hand!And Indian maiden loosed his bandsAnd raised her voice on high:"Who harms my paleface loverBy 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 spiritMightthenbe 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 herfather'swigwamHer wounded lover laid!Then bending gently o'er him,Each wound she rightly dress,And with sweet plaintive melodiesLured 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 prayerFor the lithe and graceful maidenWhose love he knew to bePure as early morning's blush,Yet deathless as—Eternity!Although once failed, his savage foesStill thirsted for his blood;The hate within their bosomsWas as tireless as a flood.Not daring open violence,They sought Oneida's craft,And 'neath the guise of friendshipGave the lovers a sleeping draught.When the mighty god of slumberHad locked them fast in sleep,The wily savage entered,His fearful oath to keep.They took McCray to the riverIn 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 outOn the jagged rocks below.Then, gladly turning homeward,A ready lie they makeTo appease her burning angerWhen Tululah shall awake!Slowly the doomed man drifted,Yet faster, at each breath,The quickening current bore himTo the open gates of death!Yet still he slept; aye, slept and dreamedOf the proud Creek's peerless flowerWho, for deathless love of him,Had braved her nation's power.Spurned her murdered siris corpseAnd to his murderer clung!Aye, on the spot that drank his blood,Love's soothing ditties sung!Dreamed of the eyes that flashed with fireWhen his foeman dared draw nigh,Yet softened into tendernessAt her lover's faintest sigh.Dreams of the hand that sped the dartThat pierced the chieftain's breast,Yet with such witching tendernessCould tremble in caress!Dreams of the heart that proudly bravedA 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 kinsmanTo become a white man's wife!Dreams how he would love and prize her,Shielding her with tenderest care,Spending time, and life, and fortuneBut to grant her lightest prayer.But his dream is rudely broken,And his blanched lip loudly calls,For he hears the well known rumblingOf this river's awful falls.Life was sweet, death was so near,And he so young to die!No wonder that his trembling lipsSought mercy from on high.He bore ten thousand torturesWith every passing breath,As he lay bound and helpless,Gliding swiftly on to death.He raised his clarion voiceAbove the deafening roar;Great heavens! can a human cryReach that resounding shore?"Yes! Yes!" a once familiar voiceCalls loudly from that shore,And a well known trapper woos timeTo 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 momentYour foot shall press the shore!"Then, as he drew the skiff ashore,He recognized McCray,But gazed in silent wonderFor late raven locks were grey!And never, to his dying day,Would McCray view the placeWhere, 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 himFrom a nation's senseless spleen.He wooed and won a maidenWhose blue eyes, like your own,Held within their liquid depths,Love's nectarine full blown,And as I press your luscious lipsI praise thee, brave McCray,Whose dauntless courage gave to meThe girl I hold today!Oh, yes; forgive me, darling,I did almost forget;But how can mortal silence keepBy such sweet eyes beset?Grant me the boon of one more kissAnd gaze into my face;Light fancy by your radiant eyes,Tululah's fate to trace!Still let the pressure of your handChain me in rapture to the earth,For I must offer thoughts tonightThat ne'er before had birth!No idle dreamer dares to pierceThe mystery of this stream,Nor would I dare the bold empriseSave that your wish I deemThe highest law my loving heartCan now or ever know,And 'neath the witchery of your smileMy raptured numbers glow!My fancy soars on eager wing,And will, perhaps, at last,Gladly at your high behestUnfold the misty past!Tululah slept till evening shadesHad deepened into night,And woke, alas! to find herselfBereft of her brave knight.Her Indian wit soon taught herOguchu was to blame,And hastily she found him,Her eyes and cheeks aflame!"Oguchu knows your mission;Your paleface lover fledWhile Tululah's starlit eyesWere 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;"Henever 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 formLet panthers rend my heart!"Speak, coward, speak! where is my brave?Tululah asks you where;Speak, lest I summon by a wordThe friends of earth and airTo 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 despairHurled 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 yetOr curse your coward race!'Tis mine to speak; yours, to obey;—I am your Virgin Queen:—Iswearto save my loverOrnevermorebe seen!"They led her to the river,And, pointing to the place,They stood like criminals abashedBefore the judge's face.She spurned their pleading counsel,And, springing in a boat,She cast the oars from herAnd set the skiff afloat!Then, as she gazed adown the stream,Her eyes were all aglowWith that deep yearning passionSuch hearts alone can know.While sitting in the boat erect,With an Indian's willowy grace,She sang in tuneful numbersA song time can't efface:"I am coming, coming, coming,Slowly drifting down the stream,While my heart is yearning, yearningFor 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 roarOf 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 maidenCould 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 lingerNear the spot by night and day.And tradition says her spiritMay be seen on nights like this,When the heavy moon, mist-laden,Greets the river with a kiss!Not in vain will be our vigilIf Tululah knows tonightIn your precious veins is flowingGenuine blood of her brave knight!Look! Look! 'mid the river's silvery sheenTululah'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 deathCan damp thy flame or chill thy breath!Nay, while eternal ages roll,'Tis thine to feed the hungry soulWith manna dipped in passion's fire,True birthright of the heart's desire;Blest food no mortal lips can takeAnd fail enrapturing bliss to wake!Heaven's corner-stone, earth's chief delight.Tululah's captive soul tonightIs but living o'er the dreamThou 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 ownHave seen the Phantom Boat,And other ears than ours have heardThat 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 slumberAnd awake in perfect bliss!
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Two lovers once sat dreamingOf scenes o'ergrown by years;Sweet Daisy's eyes were eloquentWith girlhood's pleading tears;Her little hand was lyingConfidingly in mine,While her silvery voice pleaded:"Dear one, awake the Nine!"
"Yes, darling, I will rhyme for you;What legend shall I drew!Shall I now fold you in my armsAnd, drifting down life's stream,'Mid singing birds and nodding flowers,Pour forth my soul in love—In accents soft and tender—As the cooing of a dove"?
Or shall I tell you, dearest one,Why yonder's rippling streamFirst gained the name "Tululah"In an age that's now a dream?Well, now, pillow your head upon my breast,The legend is weird and wild;I fear me much its harrowing scenesWill shock, thee, gentle child.
Will you listen, while we're watchingFor the far-famed Phantom Boat?Perhaps the tale will lead usTo catch the first faint noteOf Tululah's wondrous musicAs she floats down this stream,For, I assure you, darling,This legend is no dream.
Where now we sit, in days gone by,The stealthy panther crept,And bears and wolves in horrid hordesTheir tireless vigils kept;Turkey, deer and beaverWere scattered far and wide,And here the lordly savage stalkedIn all his pristine pride;
The Creeks then ruled this forest,From Suwanee to the sea;—A haughty, bold and cruel race,Cunning, treacherous, wild and free!To hunt and fish, and boast and fightWere the duties of a brave,While woman—alas! sweet womanWas but a cowering slave!
No grant had she to breathe her wrongsBefore the "Council Fire,"Nor dared she utter a single wordTo gain her heart's desire,Until her savage masterFirst gave her leave to speak;Nor dared she then to brave his willLest he his vengeance wreak!
Yet ever and anon there roseA woman, whose proud soulIgnored those self-created godsAnd 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 herIs 'palled with strange affright!And why she haunts this riverIs the burden of my tale,And none who have a tender heartBut will her fate bewail.
Tululah was Ocala's child,To whom the Creeks ascribeThe name of the boldest leaderThat 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 orphanAt the fatal hour of birth!The superstitious savageDeemed 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,Athercommand would fight.Her raven locks and soulful eyes,Her faultless form and peerless face,And voice of wondrous melodyAwed and charmed her race.
She reigned an undisputed Queen,Allher mandate must obey;And even the fierce OcalaWas obedient to her sway.Yet even she was powerlessTo stay the raging floodOf tireless, deathless savage hateThat sought the white man's blood.
Ocala's hatred of the whitesWas known both far and near;Brave hunters spake his name with awe,And women in trembling fear!At last he grew so treacherousNo white man dared come nigh,Till a trio of gallant huntersDeterminedhe should die!
They knew 'twas a dangerous missionOn which their steps was bent,Yet the prayers of honest settlersTheir true hearts courage lent.As they neared the sleeping village,Where Ocala awaited his doom,They flitted like weird spectresIn the silent midnight gloom!
There, spread before their vision,Five hundred wigwams lay;A savage guerdon of defenseFor him they sought to slay.To the silent village centerOur gallant hunters crept,To the door of the largest wigwam,Where proud Ocala slept.
Stepping across the prostrate formOf 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 braveWhen 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 livesTo the service of their countryAnd the freedom of men's wives;While pitying Heaven aids themBy the darkness of the night,Since not a star will lend its aidTo guide their foes aright!
Now facing North, and East, and West,They meet the savage foes,Recruiting Charon's armyBy 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 nursingWounds which these heroes gave,That signed their right to enterInto an unwept grave!
Ocala ne'er again would scourgeTheir country, far and near,Nor wring from helpless innocenceAn unavailing tear!His death alone destroyed the boastAnd stilled the raging floodOf senseless pride and passionThat bathed his hands in blood!
But, alas, for human prowess,These deeds but roused the ireOf savage wretches, who now triedTo vent their spleenwith fire!Three stakes were now erectedAnd fagots heaped around,While painted fiends in human shapeExultant, 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 stakeBefore 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 causeIs sweet beyond compare!These greedy flames that lick my bloodBut light a vision fair,Where heroism and heroes sweepThe still resounding lyre,Heaven's harmonies have quenchedThe tortures of this fire!
"Tumultuous raptures 'round me rollHeaven's pearly gates ajar!My spirit soars on fleshless wingBeyond the faintest star!Oh, blissful death; oh, vision fair,What sweet celestial glories shine,The loved and lost of earlier yearsArenowforever mine!"
The savage horde in silence stoodAnd listened as he sang,While even their untaught eyes could seeHe suffered not a pang!No yell triumphant smote his ear,Awe silenced every tongue,And many a heart beat fasterAs he his requiem sung.
Then lionhearted Conway,Beneath whose eagle eyeEven savage foes once trembledWas offered up to die!Defiant still 'mid writhing flames,He heaped on them his scorn,And, with true prophetic voiceHe doomed their race unborn.
"Rejoice! rejoice! ye howling fiends,Distort your hideous face,Soon the white man's wrath shall sweepFrom earth your blood-stained race,While shining fields and cities fairAttest the white man's power,You accursed Creeks shall beTradition's useless dower!"
Now comes your own ancestor,The gallant, brave McCray,Who planned this glorious campaignAnd 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 savageHis kind assistance lent.Yet little dreamed he, at this hour,One heart amid that throngStill beat responsive to his own,Attuned to love's mad song!
Yet, as they bound him to the stakeAnd raised the flaming brand,The Chief that held it fell a corpse,Killed by a woman's hand!And Indian maiden loosed his bandsAnd raised her voice on high:"Who harms my paleface loverBy 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 spiritMightthenbe 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 herfather'swigwamHer wounded lover laid!Then bending gently o'er him,Each wound she rightly dress,And with sweet plaintive melodiesLured 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 prayerFor the lithe and graceful maidenWhose love he knew to bePure as early morning's blush,Yet deathless as—Eternity!
Although once failed, his savage foesStill thirsted for his blood;The hate within their bosomsWas as tireless as a flood.Not daring open violence,They sought Oneida's craft,And 'neath the guise of friendshipGave the lovers a sleeping draught.
When the mighty god of slumberHad locked them fast in sleep,The wily savage entered,His fearful oath to keep.They took McCray to the riverIn 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 outOn the jagged rocks below.Then, gladly turning homeward,A ready lie they makeTo appease her burning angerWhen Tululah shall awake!
Slowly the doomed man drifted,Yet faster, at each breath,The quickening current bore himTo the open gates of death!Yet still he slept; aye, slept and dreamedOf the proud Creek's peerless flowerWho, for deathless love of him,Had braved her nation's power.
Spurned her murdered siris corpseAnd to his murderer clung!Aye, on the spot that drank his blood,Love's soothing ditties sung!Dreamed of the eyes that flashed with fireWhen his foeman dared draw nigh,Yet softened into tendernessAt her lover's faintest sigh.
Dreams of the hand that sped the dartThat pierced the chieftain's breast,Yet with such witching tendernessCould tremble in caress!Dreams of the heart that proudly bravedA 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 kinsmanTo become a white man's wife!Dreams how he would love and prize her,Shielding her with tenderest care,Spending time, and life, and fortuneBut to grant her lightest prayer.
But his dream is rudely broken,And his blanched lip loudly calls,For he hears the well known rumblingOf this river's awful falls.Life was sweet, death was so near,And he so young to die!No wonder that his trembling lipsSought mercy from on high.
He bore ten thousand torturesWith every passing breath,As he lay bound and helpless,Gliding swiftly on to death.He raised his clarion voiceAbove the deafening roar;Great heavens! can a human cryReach that resounding shore?
"Yes! Yes!" a once familiar voiceCalls loudly from that shore,And a well known trapper woos timeTo 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 momentYour foot shall press the shore!"Then, as he drew the skiff ashore,He recognized McCray,But gazed in silent wonderFor late raven locks were grey!
And never, to his dying day,Would McCray view the placeWhere, 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 himFrom a nation's senseless spleen.
He wooed and won a maidenWhose blue eyes, like your own,Held within their liquid depths,Love's nectarine full blown,And as I press your luscious lipsI praise thee, brave McCray,Whose dauntless courage gave to meThe girl I hold today!
Oh, yes; forgive me, darling,I did almost forget;But how can mortal silence keepBy such sweet eyes beset?Grant me the boon of one more kissAnd gaze into my face;Light fancy by your radiant eyes,Tululah's fate to trace!
Still let the pressure of your handChain me in rapture to the earth,For I must offer thoughts tonightThat ne'er before had birth!No idle dreamer dares to pierceThe mystery of this stream,Nor would I dare the bold empriseSave that your wish I deem
The highest law my loving heartCan now or ever know,And 'neath the witchery of your smileMy raptured numbers glow!My fancy soars on eager wing,And will, perhaps, at last,Gladly at your high behestUnfold the misty past!
Tululah slept till evening shadesHad deepened into night,And woke, alas! to find herselfBereft of her brave knight.Her Indian wit soon taught herOguchu was to blame,And hastily she found him,Her eyes and cheeks aflame!
"Oguchu knows your mission;Your paleface lover fledWhile Tululah's starlit eyesWere 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;"Henever 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 formLet panthers rend my heart!
"Speak, coward, speak! where is my brave?Tululah asks you where;Speak, lest I summon by a wordThe friends of earth and airTo 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 despairHurled 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 yetOr curse your coward race!'Tis mine to speak; yours, to obey;—I am your Virgin Queen:—Iswearto save my loverOrnevermorebe seen!"
They led her to the river,And, pointing to the place,They stood like criminals abashedBefore the judge's face.She spurned their pleading counsel,And, springing in a boat,She cast the oars from herAnd set the skiff afloat!
Then, as she gazed adown the stream,Her eyes were all aglowWith that deep yearning passionSuch hearts alone can know.While sitting in the boat erect,With an Indian's willowy grace,She sang in tuneful numbersA song time can't efface:
"I am coming, coming, coming,Slowly drifting down the stream,
While my heart is yearning, yearningFor 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 maidenCould 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 lingerNear the spot by night and day.
And tradition says her spiritMay be seen on nights like this,When the heavy moon, mist-laden,Greets the river with a kiss!Not in vain will be our vigilIf Tululah knows tonightIn your precious veins is flowingGenuine blood of her brave knight!
Look! Look! 'mid the river's silvery sheenTululah'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 deathCan damp thy flame or chill thy breath!Nay, while eternal ages roll,'Tis thine to feed the hungry soulWith manna dipped in passion's fire,True birthright of the heart's desire;Blest food no mortal lips can takeAnd fail enrapturing bliss to wake!
Heaven's corner-stone, earth's chief delight.Tululah's captive soul tonightIs but living o'er the dreamThou 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 ownHave seen the Phantom Boat,And other ears than ours have heardThat 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 slumberAnd awake in perfect bliss!
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 rollPouring 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,Manisfaultless 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 lyreNever yet has human malice stilled the music of the spheres!Inthe 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!
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,
Manisfaultless 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!
Inthe 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!
ACROSTIC TRIBUTE TODR. 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 islove, and love no wrong entails!Ye who love eternal right and wish your fellows wellRefuse him not the meed of praise—'tis his our aches to quell!Each heart within these prison walls that tests his wondrous skillUnites to sing his praises and bless his generous will.By kindly words he cheers the soul of those whom dread diseaseEnvelops 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 mindReveals 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!
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 islove, 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!
Lines To My Wife.BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.Years and years have passed awaySince last we met, my darling wife;Oft have I felt the tooth of painGnaw at the vitals of my life.The brow thy hand has oft caressedWith such sweet, hypnotic power,The lines of care and grief has tracedAnd wrinkled, like a withered flower.The dark brown locks you loved so well,Now interspersed with silver thread,Shows plainly that the march of timeHas left its footprints on my head.The deep gray eyes that once could flashWith 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 heartThat never will nor can grow old;Thy image keeps its pulses warmWith love that never shall grow cold.Thy grace and beauty won that heartLong years ago, when thou wert young:Thy gentle, generous, faithful careHas 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.
BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.
Years and years have passed awaySince last we met, my darling wife;
Oft have I felt the tooth of painGnaw at the vitals of my life.
The brow thy hand has oft caressedWith such sweet, hypnotic power,
The lines of care and grief has tracedAnd wrinkled, like a withered flower.
The dark brown locks you loved so well,Now interspersed with silver thread,
Shows plainly that the march of timeHas left its footprints on my head.
The deep gray eyes that once could flashWith 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 heartThat never will nor can grow old;
Thy image keeps its pulses warmWith love that never shall grow cold.
Thy grace and beauty won that heartLong years ago, when thou wert young:
Thy gentle, generous, faithful careHas 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 flowersWhere, 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 neverLose 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 heedingPrayers 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."
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 flowersWhere, 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 neverLose 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 heedingPrayers 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."
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 daredTo live in wild these Indians shared.Treacherous alike in peace and war,The Seminole obeyed no lawSave 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 wonBy a kindness nobly done,In rescuing from a watery graveThe 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 streamThy 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 swellYour 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 doorWith useful gifts to swell their store.Caucanoe often sought their doorAnd 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 hairCaucanoe 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 childWith a passion fierce, and deep, and wild,Yet hopeless, he feared, that love would be,Since naught could bridge the raging seaOf racial and tribal pride,That lay between them, deep and wide;And well he knew another's soulBrooked 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 nameAnd never to his wigwam came.Another love, oh, fateful thought!With direful misery doubly fraught,Surged and tossed within his soulUntil it spurned his late control.At last he sought her much loved sideAnd begged her to become his bride.The maiden heard and laughed outright,And thus let loose the fiends of nightThat of late had lain at restWithin Caucanoe's savage breast.Now, naught could stay this rising ireSave 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 palefaceShall rue Caucanoe's late disgrace!""'Tis well," the haughty chief replied;"Who scorns to be Caucanoe's brideShall feel a living flame of fireQuench 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."The boat has left the silent shore,And Hayward tugs at the muffled oar;The craft sweeps on, like a thing of life,Impelled by the prayers of a weeping wife.Caucanoe stood on the bank hard by,With heaving breast and tear-dimmed eye,That proved a hero's soul could restIn the natural dome of a savage breast.The flashing oars in the moonlight paleGive forth no sound and leave no trail;Naught is heard save the breathOf the fleeing ones in their race with death.Hark! What means that frightful yell?'Tis a cry of triumph, born of hell;Their savage foe, long under way,At last have seen their wanted prey.They see the foe and wildly flyThe flashing oars, till they almost fly;"We'll yet be saved," brave Hayward spoke,But his oars shivered beneath his stroke.He sprang to his feet, with ashen face,And his trusty rifle flew to its place;A maddening yell from the savage crewProved the ball to the mark had straightway flew.Six times his trusty rifle spoke;Each time an Indian skull it broke.His gallant sons stood near their sireAnd reinforced his deadly fire!Their doom was sealed. The savage hordeSoon reached their bark and sprang aboard;Yet scorned they even then to yield,While strength was left a knife to wield.Each one dared a hero's part;Each knife it sought a savage heart,Nor did they cease to bathe in goreTill they sank beneath to rise no more.Paralee and her mother layTo savage hands an early prey;For neither knew, nor felt they ought,Of what they did or what they sought,Since terror and alarm, too deep,Had locked their senses all in sleep.Alas! that they should ever wake:Returning senses meant the stake.Soon homeward with the living deadThe savage horde in triumph sped;And bore to haunts of Ella ReeThe paleface foe she longed to see.Better for Paralee had she diedAmid the battle's raging tide."Not wounded tigress in her lairMore dangerous than a jealous fair!"Assembled around the Council Fire,With haughty mien and rising ire,Each chief was ready to relateHis own exploit or vent his hate.Safely bound by cruel thong,In the center of the throng,The captives sat in silent dread,Envying none except the dead."Brothers! the paleface Ella Ree,Whose words from guile are always free,Will tell you all you need to know.Who scornsherwords must brave my blow!"Thus Ulca spake, then glared aroundWith a mighty monarch's haughty frown,"That held his hearers more in aweOf his dread prowess than his law.""Chief! Warriors! Braves in battle tried,Your blood Saluda's stream has dyed;Your brothers sleep no more to wake!Willyousit by nor vengeance take?""A traitor warned the doomed paleface;Shallheyet live to brave our race?How the white lily wrought the spell,Caucanoe, and not I, must tell!""Caucanoe does not fear to die!'Twas he that bade the paleface fly;Let these women now be set free;Vent your hate alone on me.""Paralee I loved, and her alone;Mine was the fault—let me atone.Ella Ree, herself, shall light the fireAnd chant around my funeral pyre.""Loose the captive! Raise the stake!It shall be thus," brave Ulca spake."If love shall brave the cruel flame,Yon captives go from whence they came."In haste they reared the ready stake,And bade the Chief his place to take.He lightly stepped in proper place,A conquering smile upon his face.The signal given—a lighted brand—Ella Ree raised with trembling hand,Yet begged Caucanoe not to die,But to her willing arms to fly.Pardon was his, both full and free,As the proud brave of Ella Ree;The hated captives should atoneFor all blood spilt, and they alone!Caucanoe frowned and thus replied:"If Ella Ree would be my bride,Let her light the fire and standHere beside me, hand in hand."Forward she sprang—the torch applied,Even in death a happy bride!Saluda's stream is never freeFrom the dying chant of Ella Ree!
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 daredTo live in wild these Indians shared.
Treacherous alike in peace and war,The Seminole obeyed no lawSave 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 wonBy a kindness nobly done,In rescuing from a watery graveThe 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 streamThy 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 swellYour 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 doorWith useful gifts to swell their store.
Caucanoe often sought their doorAnd 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 hairCaucanoe 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 childWith 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 soulBrooked 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 nameAnd never to his wigwam came.
Another love, oh, fateful thought!With direful misery doubly fraught,Surged and tossed within his soulUntil it spurned his late control.
At last he sought her much loved sideAnd 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 restWithin Caucanoe's savage breast.Now, naught could stay this rising ireSave 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 palefaceShall rue Caucanoe's late disgrace!"
"'Tis well," the haughty chief replied;"Who scorns to be Caucanoe's brideShall feel a living flame of fireQuench 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."
The boat has left the silent shore,And Hayward tugs at the muffled oar;The craft sweeps on, like a thing of life,Impelled by the prayers of a weeping wife.
Caucanoe stood on the bank hard by,With heaving breast and tear-dimmed eye,That proved a hero's soul could restIn the natural dome of a savage breast.
The flashing oars in the moonlight paleGive forth no sound and leave no trail;Naught is heard save the breathOf the fleeing ones in their race with death.
Hark! What means that frightful yell?'Tis a cry of triumph, born of hell;Their savage foe, long under way,At last have seen their wanted prey.
They see the foe and wildly flyThe flashing oars, till they almost fly;"We'll yet be saved," brave Hayward spoke,But his oars shivered beneath his stroke.
He sprang to his feet, with ashen face,And his trusty rifle flew to its place;A maddening yell from the savage crewProved the ball to the mark had straightway flew.
Six times his trusty rifle spoke;Each time an Indian skull it broke.His gallant sons stood near their sireAnd reinforced his deadly fire!
Their doom was sealed. The savage hordeSoon reached their bark and sprang aboard;Yet scorned they even then to yield,While strength was left a knife to wield.
Each one dared a hero's part;Each knife it sought a savage heart,Nor did they cease to bathe in goreTill they sank beneath to rise no more.
Paralee and her mother layTo savage hands an early prey;For neither knew, nor felt they ought,Of what they did or what they sought,
Since terror and alarm, too deep,Had locked their senses all in sleep.Alas! that they should ever wake:Returning senses meant the stake.
Soon homeward with the living deadThe savage horde in triumph sped;And bore to haunts of Ella ReeThe paleface foe she longed to see.
Better for Paralee had she diedAmid the battle's raging tide."Not wounded tigress in her lairMore dangerous than a jealous fair!"
Assembled around the Council Fire,With haughty mien and rising ire,Each chief was ready to relateHis own exploit or vent his hate.
Safely bound by cruel thong,In the center of the throng,The captives sat in silent dread,Envying none except the dead.
"Brothers! the paleface Ella Ree,Whose words from guile are always free,Will tell you all you need to know.Who scornsherwords must brave my blow!"
Thus Ulca spake, then glared aroundWith a mighty monarch's haughty frown,"That held his hearers more in aweOf his dread prowess than his law."
"Chief! Warriors! Braves in battle tried,Your blood Saluda's stream has dyed;Your brothers sleep no more to wake!Willyousit by nor vengeance take?"
"A traitor warned the doomed paleface;Shallheyet live to brave our race?How the white lily wrought the spell,Caucanoe, and not I, must tell!"
"Caucanoe does not fear to die!'Twas he that bade the paleface fly;Let these women now be set free;Vent your hate alone on me."
"Paralee I loved, and her alone;Mine was the fault—let me atone.Ella Ree, herself, shall light the fireAnd chant around my funeral pyre."
"Loose the captive! Raise the stake!It shall be thus," brave Ulca spake."If love shall brave the cruel flame,Yon captives go from whence they came."
In haste they reared the ready stake,And bade the Chief his place to take.He lightly stepped in proper place,A conquering smile upon his face.
The signal given—a lighted brand—Ella Ree raised with trembling hand,Yet begged Caucanoe not to die,But to her willing arms to fly.
Pardon was his, both full and free,As the proud brave of Ella Ree;The hated captives should atoneFor all blood spilt, and they alone!
Caucanoe frowned and thus replied:"If Ella Ree would be my bride,Let her light the fire and standHere beside me, hand in hand."
Forward she sprang—the torch applied,Even in death a happy bride!Saluda's stream is never freeFrom the dying chant of Ella Ree!