Few suns set on that dismal scene, My wounds were still unsear’d and green, When thundering on with trump and drum, I heard again the war-horse come, Like gathering tempest, big and black, That through the forest wings its track, Sweeping and tearing all that stand, And desolating wood and land. But I had oft seen danger near, And knew not that base feeling—fear! I roused my warriors from the rest That with short, fitful dreams they prest, And armed for fight, and strife and pain, Stood firm on Talladega’s plain. Oh Talladega! thou art still My native wood! my native hill! There knew I first my father’s voice, And felt my infant mind rejoice, And all those sweet endearments start, That nature winds about the heart, And home, and love, and bliss, and fame, That cluster round a parent’s name. And there I hoped to live and die, In nature’s sweet simplicity; Unmov’d with arts, or cares, or strife, That mingle in the white man’s life; Nor knew I whence th’ intruder came, Nor what his race, or what his fame; Nor car’d, nor wish’d, nor sought to be Else than I was—a Hillabee. And still I hoped, when nature threw Around my brows the silver hue, And fainting limbs proclaimed the close Of earthly cares and earthly woes, To lay me down with sober care, And slumber with my fathers there. Ah! land of all my heart holds dear, Thy groves are desolate and sear— The echoes of thy winding shore Shall charm my listening ear no more— The winds that whistle o’er thy plain Repeat a sad and hollow strain, And all thy haunts are fill’d with moans, And whitened by my nation’s bones.