But let me drop this strain of woe: I told thee of the coming foe, And he did come, in such array As well foretold a stubborn day. Few words I spoke to those who stood, With ready arms, within that wood; But, when I ceas’d, the battle cry Rung long and loudly—strike or die! Erst trampling horse, in armor bright, Pricked to the front and wooed the fight, With volley quick and furious tread Essayed th’ assault, and, wheeling, fled. I forward sprang, and at one yell A thousand warriors served me well, And urging ball and feather’d dart, Play’d hot and strong the warrior’s part; And once I drove the reeling ranks Back on their chief—the chief outflanks, Pours from behind his galling horse, And opes the war with all his force. Thick round my sides my bowmen lie— They faint, they waver, and they fly; Then streams afresh the battle gore Wider and wider along the shore, And those who fly but fly to feel Th’ avenging horsemen’s angry steel. And when the night closed on that plain, To veil the dying and the slain, Few, out of all my gallant band, Had ’scaped the mark of ball or brand; And death, of brave Muscogee men, Had numbered fourteen score and ten. CANTO IV. THE WARRIOR’S DREAM. A PROPHECY. [Scene in reminiscence. The forest of Talladega. Alhalla alone. Time, midnight.] ALHALLA. The sun went down that fatal night, Not as it wont, in glory bright, But veil’d in clouds of sombre trace, Prophetic of my falling race. I stood upon a rising ground, As darkness flung her mantle round, And heard the last, departing din, Of horse and footmen, gathering in, With clank of steel, and sharp hallo, As from the onset they withdrew, Far winding down the distant hill, Faint, and more faint—then all was still, Save crackling tread, or groan severe Of hapless comrade, weltering near: For all that wide, extended wood, Was strewed with carnage, death and blood. I stood as petrified, with thought On all one fleeting day had wrought— Of friend and foe—the brave and dead— And those who fought, and those who fled; And bitter were the pangs that came That hour within my inmost frame: For I had seen a father slain, A father old in years and pain; Two brothers stricken at my side, And a fond parent’s dearest pride, The child hope shone most brightly on, My loved, my first-born, only son! In grief absorbed and musing high, And yet no tear escaped my eye— No sigh my bosom heaved—no moan Bespoke my heart’s forsaken tone; But sealed in woe, within that wood, Unmoved as storm-beat rock I stood.