Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega: A Tale of the Creek War.: With Some Selected Miscellanies, Chiefly of Early Date.Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe
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Alhalla, or the Lord of Talladega: A Tale of the Creek War.: With Some Selected Miscellanies, Chiefly of Early Date.
Schoolcraft, Henry Rowe
American poetry -- 19th century; Creek War, 1813-1814 -- Poetry
THE golden sun with early ray,
Saw Ethwald on his ocean way,
With silent Azid for his guide,
And mission-father by his side:
His birchen vessel light and gay
Speeds swan-like o’er the liquid way—
The sky is calm—the morning air
Scarce stirs that mass, so vast, so fair—
That, like a sheet of waving gold,
The eye may not undimm’d behold;
Yet is there motion—bark and crew
Dance lightly on that ocean blue,
And ever, as up and down they ride
Upon that broad, eternal tide,
The strained sight descries the while,
Short glimpses of that holy isle,
Like dreams of bliss, that, fair and sheen,
Flit in the moment they are seen.
Nearer and nearer as they ply,
A gathering mist swells up the sky,
And every object, dun or fair,
Spreads wild distorted through the air—
The trees like shrouded spectres stand,
To guard that evil haunted land—
The pointed cliffs spread broad and square,
Like castles with their banners fair,
And motley shapes of monstrous size
Start up, and glare before the eyes.
To all but Azid’s fearful view
The scene is glorious, grand, and new,
But wondrous not—they know and prize
The gay refractions of these skies;
But Azid—ghastly forms pursue,
All that he fears he sees in view!
At first he mutters—then he speaks,
Cold drops bedew his aged cheeks;
But ere he lifts th’ imploring eye,
T’ appease the spirit of the sky,
An offering meet of sacred things
Upon the misty wave he flings,
But chief that herb whose sacred fame
And power, the tribes Ussáma name.
Then with brief word and solemn air
Recites the simple hunter’s prayer.
“’Tis now with Thee—Great Spirit free,
My rite is done—it is with Thee!”
Now western breezes briskly play,
And sweep those fleecy forms away;
In broken fields they wheel on high,
And show that treasur’d island nigh,
In all its loveliest verdure drest,
Like sanctuary of the blest,
Where peace hath rear’d her forest throne,
To man and all his works unknown.
With joy they reach the silver strand,
With joy they gaze—they leap to land,
Like beings from a higher sphere,
Dropt down to dwell and worship here.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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