This Poem is founded on the following actual occurrences: During the Seminole war, Duncan M. Rimmon (the Rathmond of the poem), a Georgia militiaman, was captured by the Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, condemned him to death. He was bound; but while the instruments of torture were preparing, the tender-hearted daughter of Hillis-adjo (the Chicomico of the tale) threw herself between the prisoner and his executioners, and interceded with her father for his release. She was successful. His life was spared. In the progress of the war, however, it was the fate of the generous Hillis-adjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a prisoner of war, and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These incidents Miss Davidson wrought up, with other characters (probably fictitious), to compose the whole of this poem. The first part of the poem is so incomplete, that it was thought best to introduce the reader immediately the second part. The war had broken out. Chicomico had solicited the presence of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid her father Hillis-adjo against the whites, with Rathmond at their head. The battle is described, the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is taken prisoner. Here the secoud part commences.
PART II.
What sight of horror, fear and woe, Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe? What thought of blood now lights his eye? What victim foe is doomed to die? For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild, And he cares not to look on his only child. His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire, And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire, Alas! 'tis Rathmond stands a prisoner now, Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe, From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread, To whose vindicate, cruel, savage mind, Loss after loss fast following from behind, Had only added thirst insatiate for blood; And now he swore by all his heart held dear, That limb from limb his victims he would tear.
But ah! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell! Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell? To die when manhood dawns in rosy light, To be cut off in all the bloom of life, Ta view the cup untasted snatched from sight, Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife. Alas, poor youth! how sad, how faint thy heart! When memory paints the forms endeared by love, From these so soon, so horribly to part; O! it would almost savage bosoms move! But unextinguished hope still lit his breast, And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest! Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, Though sinking, 'mid the abyss o'er which it beamed, Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound, Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, And as it rolls away, gives up to fear: Dreads to look round, for death's on every side, The lowering clouds above the ocean wide: He wails alone—"and scarce forbears to weep," That his wrecked bark still lingers on the deep!
E'en to the child of penury and woe, Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep,[1] Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow, Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep! Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink, Snatched from each joy, which opening life may give, Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink, And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live! But, see! the captive now is dragged along, While round him mingle yell and wild-war song! The ring is formed around the high raised pile, Fagots o'er fagots reared with savage toil; The impatient warriors watch with burning brands, To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands! Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn, All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone! A horrid death is placed before his eyes; In fancy now he sees the flames arise, He hears the deafening yell which drowns the cry Of the poor victim's last, dire agony! His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray To that great God, before whose awful bar His lightened soul was soon to wing its way From this sad world to other realms afar!
He raised his eyes to heaven's blue arch above, That pure retreat of mercy and of love; When, lo! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye. The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die! His haughty spirit now must be brought low; Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe: The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom, As on they led him to his horrid doom. A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned, His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned: His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear, Though the death-note already met his ear. Tall and majestic was his noble mien, Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire, His step was bold, his features all serene, As he approached the steep funereal pyre!
Close at his side, a figure glided slow, Clad in the dark habiliments of woe, Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold, All, save one treacherous ringlet,—bright as gold.
The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high, A signal that the victim soon must die! While yell and war-note join the chorus still, Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill! Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze, Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days; When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die, Bent upon him with such a steady gaze, That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze! Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky And o'er the parting day its glories spread, Which was to close when their sad souls had fled,— "White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, "Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep, This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep!" He said no more; for lo! the death-yells cease. 'Tis hushed! no sound is echoed through the place. The opening ring disclosed a female there, In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair, Which, long and dark, luxuriant round her hung, With many a clear white pearl and dew-drop strung.
She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of woe! The angel of mercy, the herald of grace, Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! "My father! my father!" the maiden exclaims, "O doom not the white man to die 'midst the flames! 'Tis thy daughter who kneels, 'tis Chicomico sues, Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse? This heart is the white man's, with him will I die, With him to the Great Spirit's mansion I'll fly; The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul, Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll; My life is his life—his fate shall be mine; For his image around thy child's heart will entwine!
Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern, From the sufferings of others it heedless may turn; To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of woe, To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow, But 'twill melt like the snow on the Apennine's breast, As the sunbeam falls light on its fancy-crowned crest, When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given, Filled with sorrow's sad notes like the music of heaven.
"Loose the white man," the king in agony cried, "My child, what you plead for, can ne'er be denied! The prisoner is yours! to enslave or to free! I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee, But remember!" he cried, while pride conquered his woe,' "Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe!" He frowned, and his brow, like the curtains of night, Looked darker, when tinged by a moonbeam of light; Chicomico saw—she saw, and with dread, The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head; And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh, While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye.
"Go, white man, go! without a fear; Remember you to one are dear; Go! and may peace your steps attend; Chicomico will be your friend. To-morrow eve with us may close Joyful, and free from cares or woes; To-morrow eve may also end, And find me here without a friend! Remember then the Indian maid, Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed! But should I be, as now I am, And thou in prison and in woe, Think that this heart is still the same, And turn thee to Chicomico! Then, go! yes, go! while yet you may, Dread death awaits you if you stay! May the Great Spirit guard and guide Your footsteps through the forest wide!" She said, and wrapped her mantle near Her fragile form, with hasty hand, Just bowed her head, and shed one tear, Then sped him to his native land.
The wind is swift, and mountain hart, From huntsman's bow the feathered dart; But swifter far the prisoner's flight, When freed from dungeon-chains and night! So Rathmond felt, but wished to show How much he owed Chicomico; But she had fled; she did not hear! She did not mark the grateful tear Which quivered in the hero's eye; Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh; And Heaven alone could hear the prayer, Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there.
PART III.
While swift on his way young Rathmond sped, Death's horrors awaited those he fled. Already were the prisoners bound,— One word, and every torch would fly; No step was heard, nor feeblest sound, Save the death raven's wing on high! The sign was given, each blazing brand Like lightning shot from every hand; The crackling, sparkling fagots blazed,— Then Montonoc his dark eye raised; He whistled shrill—an answering call Told that each foeman then should fall! Sudden a band of warriors flew From earth, as if from earth they grew. The brake, the fern, and hazel-down, Blazed brightly in the sinking sun; Confusion, blood, and carnage then Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen; The blazing brands were quenched in blood, And Montonoc unshackled stood! He paused one moment—dark he frowned, By dire revenge and slaughter crowned; Then bent his bow, let loose the dart, And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart. Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped, For Hillis-ha-ad-joe is dead!
And now within their hidden tent, The conquered make their sad lament; Before them lay their slaughtered king, While slowly round they form the ring; Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm; Upon his brow a dreadful frown Still lingered as the warrior's crown; And yet it seemed as mortal ire Still sparkled in that eye of fire, And, blazing, soon should light the face O'er which death's shadow held its place, And like the lightning 'neath a cloud, Shoot flaming from its sable shroud. But, hark! low notes of sorrow break The solemn calm, and o'er the lake, Float on the bosom of the gale; Hark! 'tis the Chieftain's funeral wail!
Fallen, fallen, fallen low Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe! To the land of the dead, By the white man sped! In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow and the antlered deer!
Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe! Chant his death-dirge sad and slow; In the battle he fell, in the fight he died, And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow and the antlered deer.
The sun is sinking in the deep, Our "mighty fallen one" we weep; Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe! The axe has laid our broad oak low! In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, To the land of the bow and the antlered deer.
The last sad note had sunk on the breeze, Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees, When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, But joined not her voice to the funeral song. When the notes ceased, she knelt, and in accents of woe, Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. Her words were but few, and her manner was wild, For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan child! She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red, She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled!
Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico? Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough? Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair? Read! for the "wreck of reason's written there!" 'Tis true! the storm was high, the surges wild, And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child! Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea, Say! who is left to love, to comfort thee? All, all are gone, and thou art left alone, Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown.
But she has fled, the wild and wingéd wind Is by her left, long loitering far behind! But whither has she fled? to wild-wood glen, Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men! Her bed the rock, her drink the rippling stream, And murdered friends her ever constant dream! Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale, Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail! Her little skiff she paddles o'er the lake, And bids "the Daughter of the Voice," awake! From hill to hill the shrieking echoes run, To greet the rising and the setting sun.
PART IV.
The lake is calm, the sun is low, The whippoorwill is chanting slow, And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green. Fit emblem of a guiltless mind, The glassy waters calmly lie; Unruffled by a breath of wind, Which o'er its shining breast may sigh! The shadow of the forest there Upon its bosom soft may rest; The eagle-heights, which tower in air, May cast their dark shades o'er its breast.
But hark! approaching paddles break The stillness of that azure lake! Swift o'er its surface glides the bark, Like lightning's flash, like meteor spark It seemed, as on the light skiff flew, As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue, Which, dimpling round the vessel's side, Sparkled and whirled. in eddies wide!
Who guides it through the yielding lake? Who dares its magic calm to break? "Tis Montonoc! his piercing eye Is raised to where the western hill Rears its broad forehedad to the sky, Battling the whirlwind's fury still.
'Twas Montonoc, and with him there Was that strange form, with golden hair! Wrapped in the self-same garb, as when, Surrounded by those savage men, The stranger had, with Montonoc, Been led before the blazing stake! Swift, swift the light skiff forward flew, Till it had crossed the waters blue; Both leaped like lightning to the land, And left the skiff upon the strand; Far 'mid the forest then they fled, And mingled with its dark brown shade.
The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking, The bird of the gloomy brow was shrieking, When a note on the night-wind was wafted along, A note of the dead Chieftain's funeral song. A form was seen wandering in frantic woe, 'Twas the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar, And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of War! She ceased when she came near the breeze-ruffled lake; She ceased—was't the wind sighing o'er the long brake? Was't the soft rippling wave? was't the murmur of trees, Which, bending, were brushed by the wing of the breeze? Ah, no! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught A form which her frenzied brain never forgot! 'Twas Rathmond! yes, Rathmond before her now stood, And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood.
"Chicomico!" he cried, his. voice sad and low, "Chicomico! we are the children of woe! O, come, then! O, come! and thy Rathmond's strong arm Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm; 'Tis true, I have loved with the passion of youth! I have loved; and let Heaven attest with what truth! But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead"— (Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek turned red) "'Twas thy father, Chicomico—yes, 'twas thy sire, Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre! But, 'tis passed"—(and he crossed his cold, quivering hand O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,) "'Tis passed! and Chicomico, thou didst preserve The life of a wretch, who now never can love! That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled!" ··········· She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright fire Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends-—of her sire; "Young Eagle!" she cried, "when my father .was slain, What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain, Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life Of Hillis-ad-joe? and say, who in that strife Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone? Yes, Young Eagle! my father, my brothers are gone! Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they To yon heaven in the west are wending their way? And, hark! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on high, Bids me come! and see, white man, how gladly I fly!" More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in view, To the bark that was stranded, Chicomico flew! She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming spray And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away:—
"I go to the land in the west, The Great Spirit calls me away! To the land of the just and the blest, The Great. Spirit points me the way!
"Like snow on the mountain's crest, Like foam on the fountain's breast, Hillis-ad-joe and his kinsmen have passed! Like the sun's setting ray in the west, When it sinks on the wave to rest, The dead chieftain's daughter is coming at last!
"Too long has she lingered behind, Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice! But hark! it calls loud in the wind, And Chicomico now will rejoice!
"I go to the land in the west: The Great Spirit calls me away! To the land of the just and the blest, The Great Spirit points me the way!"
The wild notes sunk upon the gale, And echo caught them not again! For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail, Wafted afar the last sad strain!
'Twas said, that shrieking 'mid the storm, The maiden oft was seen to glide, And oft the hunters marked her form, As swift she darted through the tide.
And once along the calm lake shore, Her light canoe was she seen to guide, But the maid 4nd her bark are seen no more To float along the rippling tide.
For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar, And her lamp, as it glimmered amid the storm, A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more, For it sunk 'mid the waves with her maniac form!
THE FAREWELL.
Adieu, Chicomico, adieu; Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave, And 'neath thy canopy of blue May sea-maids deck thy coral grave.
'Twas but a feeble voice which sung Thy hapless tale of youthful woe; But ah! that weak, that infant tongue Will ne'er another story know.
And though the rough and foaming surge, And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er, Should rudely chant thy funeral dirge, And send the notes from shore to shore;
Still shall one voice be heard, above The dreadful "music of the spheres!" The voice of one whose song is love, Embalmed by sorrow's saddest tears.
PART V.
The fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o'er Their chieftain's body, chieftain now no more! As fire half-quenched, some faint spark lives, Glimmers, half dies, and then revives, Revives to kindle far and wide, And spread with devastating stride; So glimmered, so revived, so spread The mourners' rage around the dead! Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung, Up rose the aged and the young; And swore, as tenants of the wood, By all their hearts held dear or good, That, ere another sun should rise, Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes. They swore revenge and bloodshed too, As their slain chieftain's rightful due; They swore 'that blood should freely flow For their poor, lost Chicomico!
'Twas evening: all was fair and still; The orb of night now sparkling on the rill, Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake, Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake! Far through the forest, where no foot-path lay, Old Montonoc pursued his onward way; The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm, Shook at each noise, and. trembled with alarm; "Well do I know the woodland way, For I have tracked it many a day, When mountain bear or wilder deer Have called me to this forest drear. Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray, Why wanderest thou so far away, From friends, from safety, and from home, To war, and weariness, and gloom? Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear Free from disguise that form so dear; It must not, and it will not be, 'Till, buried in the dark Monee, The last of yonder tribe of blood Lies weltering in the sable flood! But rest thee on this fresh green seat, And I will trace his wandering feet; Warn him to watch the lurking foe, Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow; Then rest thee here; within yon dell I saw his form, and knew him well?"
Thus spoke the prophet of the wood, As near the stranger maid he stood.
"Then go," she cried, half faltering, "go! Bid him beware the bloody foe! But give me, ere we part," she cried, "Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side; Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find Strength in the hour of deep distress; Go! my preserver and my friend, May heaven thy steps and efforts bless!"
Cautious and swift the Indian went; His head was raised, his bow was bent, And as he on, like wild deer, sped, So light, so silent, was his tread, That scarce a leaf was heard to move, Of flower below, or branch above! Where Rathmond, with a heart of woe, Had gazed. on lost Chicomico, There, on that spot, the prophet's eye Marked the young warrior's farewell sigh.
"Why lingerest thou here, Young Eagle," he cried, "The foe 'neath the fern and the dark hazel hide! Blood, blood! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs! Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears! When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below, Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here, Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear! But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be, And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee, Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and woe, Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know!"
"What mean'st thou, prophet of the eagle-eye, By thy mysterious prophecy? Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief Doomed her to death, and me to grief! That round that form the wild flames rolled And wafted far her angel soul!. Why didst thou mot arrest the brand? For, prophet, fate was in thy hand."
"'Tis well," the Indian calmly said, "'Tis well," and bowed to earth his head; "But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave, "I left a skiff on yonder wave— Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe?"
"No, Montonoc! no foe was she, Who plunged adown the swift Monee, Chicomico is cold and damp! The wave her couch—the moon her lamp; But mark! adown the foaming stream The barks beneath the moon's pale beam! What bode they? or of weal, or woe? Do they betoken friend or foe? Perchance to rouse the wildwood deer The Indian hunters landed there."
Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill! Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky. But hark! what cry of savage joy is there, Borne through the forest on the midnight air?
It is the foe! the band of blood-hounds came, Who erst had lit the Chieftain's funeral flame! Revenge and death around their arrows gleam, And murder shudders 'neath the moon's pale beam! The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief, Sage in the council, bloody in the strife, High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air, Waved on the breeze, and shone a beacon there! Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire, And bosom burning high with ire, And sparkling eye, and burning brand, Which gleamed athwart both lake and strand, Still echoed back the lengthened yell Which startled wildwood, rock and dell! And more were there, so dread, so wild, Nature might shudder at her child, And curse the hand that e'er had made So dark a stain, so deep a shade!
On, on they flew, with lengthened stride; But, ah! the victims, where are they?— Naught but the lake lies open wide, And the broad bosom of the bay! But, ah! 'tis well; that shrill shriek tolled The death-knell of their chief once more! Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold, That stretched yon white plume on the shore!
Safe crouched 'neath fern-bush, dark and low, Rathmond had truly bent his bow, And Montonoc, with steady eye, From 'mid the oak's arms, broad and high, Took aim as sure; his arrows sped, And many a bloody foe is dead! Wide tumult spreads! afar they fly, Each rustling brake, which meets the eye, Seems shrouding still some warrior there, With bloody brand and eye of fire. Slow dropping from his safe retreat, The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat; Then raised loud yells of various tone, Such as are given at victory won, And Rathmond joined, till long and high, Rang the loud chorus to the sky! Hark! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild; Can it be Echo, Nature's darling child? No; 'tis a whoop of horror and despair, Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear!
Lo! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave, Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave! 'Tis done: the sullen bosom of the bay Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey!
One hollow splashing, as the waters part, Sad welcome of the victim to his bed, One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and dread!
But, ah! like some sad spectre lingering near, A form still hovers o'er the scene of woe; Does it await its hour of vengeance here, Watching the cold forms weltering below?
The morn was dawning slowly in the east, A few faint gleams of light were bursting through When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm breast, And sullen sunk amid its waters blue!
That rude, wild phantom hovering there, Poised on the precipice midway in air, Like some stern spirit of the dead, Rising indignant from its bed, Was Ompahaw! alone, he stood, Gazing on heaven, on hill, and wood! His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare; Its glance was triumph, mingled with despair! Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red, Waving in warlike pride around his head; His bow was aimless, bent within his hand; His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band; And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm, Was wildly fluttering round his warrior form!
"Farewell!" he cried, "this aged hand Draws the last bow-string of our band!" He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's. glance, The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced; Like comet's blaze, like shooting star, It whirled across the waters far! The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell, Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell! Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore, "Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore!" Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung The death-song of his tribe, till Nature rung!
THE DEATH-SONG.
"The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe; But they fled to the heaven of peace in the west; The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed!
"From the dark rock's frowning brow They flew to the deep below; They feared not, for the heaven of peace in the west Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest!
"The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad joe Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below! I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest! Lo! my freed soul is.winged towards the west!"
'Tis past! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep! 'Tis past! the deed is done, the tribe has gone! Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one!
The last of all that tribe of blood Lies weltering in the sable flood! O! where is yonder fair-haired maid? Say, whither hath the lone one strayed? 'Mid the wild tumult of the strife, Where fled she from the scalping-knife? Angels around her spread their arm, And shrouded her from fear and harm! But oh, what shriek rang shrill and clear, And echoed still in Rathmond's ear? Why should he note that voice, that scream? Was it his fancy, or a dream? Or was it—hope illumed his eye, And pointed to the prophecy!
"But no!—'twere madness to return To those bright scenes of joy," he cried, "Her bones: are whitening in the sun, Her ashes scattered far and wide!" But where is Montonoc? alone, Rathmond is musing on the strand; Say, whither has the prophet gone? Why does young Rathmond heedless stand?
O! he is picturing to his vacant breast Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed, Which youthful hope had promised should be his, When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss! O! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste, Left in that bosom, which had loved so well! O! he was wishing for some place of rest, Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell!
But, ah! the voice of Montonoc is heard, Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird; "Eagle!" he cried, "the fatal charm hath passed! The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last! And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power The latest trophy of my life's last hour! Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine! But mark! 'twas I who gave, for he was mine! Adieu! I go!" He closed his fiery eye, And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high!
The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil, Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark hood, And lo! Cordelia before Rathmond stood!
