THE RED EAGLE 
 
WILLIAM WEATHERFORD, THE RED EAGLE 
 OF THE CREEKS. 
 
 (A study, adapted from an old print. No likeness known.) 
 
The Red Eagle 
 
 A POEM OF THE SOUTH 
 
 By A. B. Meek 
 
 MONTGOMERY, ALA.: 
 
 THE PARAGON PRESS 
 
 209-111 DEXTER AVENUE 
 
 MCMXIV 
 
Copyright, 1914 
 By Will T. Sheehan and Geo. N. Bayzer 
 
PS 2 3 7#.M 3. e p 
 
 EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 OR nearly seventy years the poetic and 
 romantic charm of The Red Eagle, an he 
 roic poem by Alexander Beaufort Meek, 
 has been reserved for the few fortunate 
 possessors of this rare volume, now out 
 of print for more than a generation. Intellectual Ala 
 bama, educational Alabama, for that period have suffered 
 a distinct loss in not knowing this great poem, reflecting 
 its early history, redolent of the charm of Alabama s 
 own woods, hills and vales. 
 
 The poem is more than a story of Weatherford, the 
 Red Eagle of the Creeks, the Alabama pioneers and 
 "Old Hickory" Jackson, to whom the Creek War leader 
 surrendered; it is poetry of a high order. At times 
 the author attains lofty flights, in recounting the daring 
 of Red Eagle, his romantic love story with Lilla Beazely, 
 the vivid portrayal of the massacre at Fort Mimms, or 
 in his mystic description of the Indian s Holy Ground, 
 on the Alabama River, near Whitehall, in Lowndes 
 County. The height of dramatic and poetic art is 
 reached in the portrayal of the surrender of Red Eagle 
 to General Jackson, at Old Fort Toulouse. 
 
 It can but be regarded as unfortunate that the school 
 children of Alabama should be so familiar with the ex 
 ploits of King Phillip and Tecumseh, and other Indian 
 leaders, and be kept in ignorance of the deeds of Weath 
 erford and Osceola, Indian war leaders of their own 
 State. Longfellow s Hiawatha merits its general pop- 
 
 302371 
 
<>* . T . JE 1) i; T 6 ft i A INTRODUCTION 
 
 ularity, but why should a poem of Indian life in Ala 
 bama, and of equal merit, be left to a few old dusty 
 book shelves ? 
 
 To put the people of Alabama in possession of their 
 heritage from the genius of Meek, this poem has been 
 reprinted, and issued in keeping with its poetic and ro 
 mantic interest. 
 
 In the Introduction, which Meek himself wrote, 
 and which precedes the poem, William Weatherford, the 
 Creek War Leader, known as "Red Eagle," is given 
 sufficient description to stimulate the interest of all who 
 have a regard for the dramatic and striking story of the 
 pioneer period in Alabama. To it can only be added 
 the evidence of some writers, after Meek, who knew 
 Weatherford and who bore witness to the innate strength 
 of his character. Weatherford was by far the most noted 
 of Southern war leaders. 
 
 General Thomas Woodward, the Alabama pio 
 neer who rode, hunted and lived by "Red Eagle" after 
 his surrender to Jackson, said "The Indians called him 
 The Truth-Teller/ and he was all of that." Again, the 
 Creeks called him affectionately "Yellow Billy," a name 
 which threw a light on his Scotch ancestry, for Weath- 
 erford s father was a Scotch trader, who lived and had 
 a race track a few miles north of the city of Montgom 
 ery, between Pickett s Springs and the Coosada Ferry. 
 
 Weatherford, or as he came to be known, "Red 
 Eagle," was not a chief by birth, or family right; he was 
 forced, by his own native gifts, to the place of influence 
 and leadership of the Creeks when they took up arms 
 against the whites. It is hardly necessary to say that 
 
EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 the Creek War in Alabama was but a remote and iso 
 lated part of the far-flung conflict between Great Britain 
 and the United States in 1812-1814. The British, from 
 a point of vantage at Pensacola, excited and armed the 
 Creeks of Middle Alabama to warfare against the white 
 American settlers. The visit of Tecumseh, from the 
 North, to his old birthplace in Middle Alabama, was 
 but another secret effort of the British to put the In 
 dians in the field. 
 
 Weather ford, who commanded the Indians, always 
 deplored the horrible massacre, which followed the cap 
 ture of Fort Minis, (the correct spelling of this name), in 
 Baldwin County. Certain it is that he rode away from 
 the scene, after the fall of the barricade, when the In 
 dians began to murder and scalp the helpless captives. 
 He is reported to have ridden to the home of Tait, his 
 half-brother, some miles away, where he said, "My 
 braves are murdering men, women and children, and I 
 can do nothing with them." The fact that Weatherford 
 lived, for ten years after the fall of Fort Mims. not many 
 miles away, and among the white people who had lost 
 relatives in the massacre, was sufficient proof that they 
 accepted, as true and sincere, his repudiation of the 
 massacre, and his assertion that he tried to restrain the 
 Creeks when they entered the fort. 
 
 It is but proper that this volume should be pre 
 ceded by an acknowledgment of the debt the people of 
 Alabama owe to the genius of Alexander B. Meek, who 
 has perpetuated the romantic history of the first Creek 
 war in this beautiful poem. But Alabama owes Meek 
 additional obligation, for no one man is as much respon- 
 
8 EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 sible as he for the preservation of the earlier and more 
 dramatic history of the State. A student at the Univer 
 sity of Alabama, when it opened in 1831, he graduated 
 in 1833, and immediately won State-wide notice, be 
 cause of his literary and oratorical gifts. In an uncon 
 genial age for literature, about 1840, when that match 
 less genius, Edgar Allan Poe, was going hungry and 
 ragged in New York, Richmond, Philadelphia and Bal 
 timore, Meek in Alabama started The Southron in Tus- 
 caloosa, a magazine devoted to literature, and made it 
 notable by his vigorous sketches in prose, and by poems 
 of the highest order. The magazine was born, only to 
 die, but it was made the vehicle for the beginning of 
 the Romantic Passages in Southwestern History, which 
 preserved the exploits of the pioneers and their Indian 
 foes, and which had a powerful influence in inducing 
 Col. Albert J. Pickett to write his History of Alabama. 
 
 The Red Eagle was written by Meek about 1845, 
 a friend said; but it was finally published in 1855 in 
 book form by Appleton and Company of New York. It 
 met with instantaneous favor, not only in Alabama, but 
 in the cities of^ the East as well. But greater and more 
 tragic events were marshalling than the production of 
 an excellent poem. Mighty issues were dividing the 
 North and the South, and the approaching War repressed 
 for a time a growing interest in Alabama in poetry and 
 literature. 
 
 When the war was over, but a few volumes of The 
 Red Eagle were in existence. These have held dusty 
 places in old libraries and only now and then would 
 
EDITORIAL INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 an older man or older woman quote with a kindling eye 
 some of the stirring passages of The Red Eagle, a poem 
 which to the South should be as Scott s Lady of the Lake 
 to Scotland. In reprinting this volume we have left ab 
 solutely untouched Meek s own introduction to his poem, 
 the text of the poem, and his explanatory Notes. 
 
 We are under a special obligation to Dr. Thomas M. 
 Owen, Director of the State Department of Archives and 
 History, for use of the rare engravings of early paint 
 ings of "The Massacre of Fort Mims," and "The Sur 
 render of Weatherford." It is p roper to caution, how 
 ever, that these pictures are altogether the creation of 
 the artist, and the editors do not vouch the accuracy of 
 the details. 
 
 WILL T. SHEEHAN, 
 GEO. X. BAYZER. 
 
 Montgomery, Ala., Dec. 1, 1914. 
 
TO 
 
 W. GILMORE SIMMS, LL. D., 
 
 THE HISTORIAN, NOVELIST AND POET, 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME 
 
 IS CORDIALLY INSCRIBED BY HIS FRIEND 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
PRELIMINARY 
 
 The leading incidents of this Poem, as romantic 
 as they may seem, are all strictly historical. They are 
 drawn from that remarkable and sanguinary chapter in 
 south-western annals, known as The Creek War of 1813, 
 which has never been depicted in such vivid colors as its 
 interest deserves. The hero of the story is the cele 
 brated chieftain, Weatherford, or The Red Eagle, as 
 he was called by his countrymen. As a warrior and an 
 orator, gifted with all the physical graces that could 
 contribute to pre-eminence, he never had his superior 
 among our aboriginal tribes. He was the principal 
 leader of the Creek or Muscogee Indians, in the terrific 
 struggle which began, after some preliminary skirmishes, 
 in the bloody massacre at Fort Mimms, sixty miles above 
 Mobile, upon the Tensaw, a branch of Alabama River, 
 on the thirtieth of August, 1813, when near five hundred 
 persons, including all the adjacent inhabitants of the 
 insulated backwoods settlement, two companies of United 
 States troops, and many friendly Indians, were indis 
 criminately butchered, through the criminal recklessness 
 of a drunken commander, who, though warned of his 
 danger, would not even close the gates of his fortress. 
 
14 PRELIMINARY 
 
 But seven of the number miraculously escaped to tell 
 the bloody story. This brought the speedy invasion of 
 the Creek nation, by the various armies, from Tennessee 
 under General Jackson, from Georgia under Generals 
 Floyd and Pinckney, and from Mississippi under Gen 
 eral Claiborne, resulting in the rapid series of san 
 guinary battles, which, in a few months, almost depopu 
 lated the nation, near five thousand warriors having 
 laid down their lives in the struggle to which they had 
 been incited by religious fanaticism, the wily schemes of 
 Tecumseh, and their aggravated hatred of the white 
 man, so constantly encroaching upon their primitive 
 hunting-grounds, then e xtending from the Chattahoo- 
 chee to the Tombecbee. 
 
 The principal events of this War which, from 
 its commencement to its close, presents a species of epic 
 progress and retributive results seldom found in actual 
 occurrences, have been narrated in a general way by 
 our historians; but all its minor incidents, its local and 
 personal features and characteristics in which reside 
 its vitality and chief attractiveness have been suffered 
 to pass unnoticed, and to lapse into perishing tradition. 
 To rescue these, in some degree, from oblivion, and to 
 preserve them in those hues of poetry to which they 
 seem so eminently adapted, has been the object of the 
 author of the present work. While adhering strictly to 
 historical truth, even in details, he has endeavored so to 
 arrange the lights and shadows of his picture, as not to 
 mar the grace and beauty, which are the prime objects 
 of all true poetic creation. The character of his hero 
 has aided in this. The love-life of Weatherford, here 
 
PRELIMINARY 15 
 
 truthfully narrated, his dauntless gallantry, his mar 
 vellous personal adventures and hairbreadth escapes, 
 and, chief of all, his wonderful eloquence, which eventu 
 ally saved his life, when all other means would have 
 failed, afford as fine a theme for the poet as any in 
 American history. How the present writer has suc 
 ceeded is for the reader to determine. It may here be 
 stated, that the version given of Weatherford s speech to 
 General Jackson, after the crushing and conclusive bat 
 tle of the Horse-Shoe, is as literal as the necssities of 
 verse would permit. 
 
 The author, at one time, prepared copious "Historic 
 Illustrations" of the incidents of this poem; but he fin 
 ally concluded that, as such a performance should, as 
 far as possible, be complete in itself, totus, teres atque 
 rotundus, to restrict his annotations to the few explana 
 tory notes at the end of the volume. 
 
VOLUPTUOUS Spring! in this soft southern clime, 
 With prodigality of birds and flowers ! 
 Not Guido, in his rosy Dream of Hours, 
 Framed in Arcadian vales, a lovelier time! 
 
 Now, whilst thou blessest us with glow and chime, 
 My heart, the inspiration of thy bowers, 
 Would fondly claim, and, with refreshened powers, 
 
 Build for thy storied scenes befitting rhyme. 
 
 No muse is thine, my worship may invoke, 
 Yet give the secret of yon red-bird s song 
 Spirit and monodist of that frail throng, 
 
 Who erst, with shout and dance, these woods awoke. 
 
 Perished those nations ! Will YE not retain 
 
 One rude memorial in this simple strain? 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 How brightly down the burning West, 
 The monarch sun now sinks to rest, 
 Flinging abroad his breath of gold. 
 
 O er all the clouds collected there, 
 Like bannered armies to behold, 
 
 Day dying on his gorgeous car! 
 Lo! like a God, his mighty brow 
 Glows with a rich effulgence now, 
 As, smiling grandly, he retires, 
 With lingering glance and farewell fires, 
 From the sweet scene that all the day 
 Has wooed his most benignant ray, 
 
22 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Fair Alabama s forest Land, 
 
 In its primeval verdure drest, 
 With waving woods, and rivers grand, 
 And mountains that like giants stand 
 To guard its pictured valley s rest! 
 
 From morn till eve, that sun has seen 
 But one unbroken world of green. 
 From Chattahoochee s yellow wave, 
 By Tallapoosa s waters clear, 
 Where Coosa s isle-gemmed currents lave, 
 And young Cahawba s hills uprear, 
 To where fair Tuscaloosa glides, 
 And dark Tombecbee pours his tides, 
 Incessant wilds, o er hill and plain, 
 In virgin loveliness remain, 
 And scenes as fresh and bright display, 
 As ever met the eye of day: 
 No lovelier land the Prophet viewed, 
 When on the sacred mount he stood, 
 And saw below, transcendent shine, 
 The streams and groves of Palestine! 
 
 All through this lordly realm so wide, 
 This wilderness of woods and flowers, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 23 
 
 This paradise of fragrant bowers. 
 No human home that sun espied, 
 Save cone-like cabins, mid the trees, 
 Whose bark-roofs totter in the breeze, 
 And scarcely serve as shelter rude 
 For their red tenants of the wood. 
 Northward, amid his mountains free. 
 The wigwams of the Cherokee; 
 And southward by each winding stream. 
 
 That veins the earth s enamelled breast, 
 Muscogee s scattered camp-fires gleam 
 
 The tameless Arab of the West! 
 These only met his morning eye, 
 Though far the sun flamed in the sky: 
 But westward, where he now delays, 
 The white man s home arrests his rays, 
 The dauntless pioneer who came, 
 From distant lands, these wilds to tame. 
 And bid, beneath their genial skies, 
 His farms extend, his domes arise, 
 By Alabama s lordly tide, 
 
 And Tensaw s dark and turbid stream, 
 Whose mingling waves now gulfward glide, 
 Through forests vast, in golden pride, 
 
 Lit by the day s departing beam ! 
 
24 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 Few days agone, the song of peace 
 
 Was heard amid these woodland homes, 
 The sounding axe smote forest trees, 
 
 And upward sprang new rustic domes. 
 
 Blue, through the groves, the morning smoke 
 
 Curled gently towards the placid sky, 
 And merry laugh, and shout and joke, 
 
 From busy fields, swept frequent by. 
 Along the stream, the light bark bore 
 
 Young commerce to the opening shore, 
 And rosy children strolled away, 
 With bees and birds, through woodlands gay. 
 But now another scene is there! 
 The field is tenantless and bare; 
 The song is hushed, the hearth-fire out; 
 Silent the boatman s frolic shout; 
 Wild terror hover s o er the scene, 
 Where lately all was so serene; 
 For hark! the Indian s fierce war-cry 
 Hath pealed along that forest sky, 
 And all, before the dread report, 
 
 The startled sire and trembling maid, 
 For safety, to yon sheltering Fort, 
 
 From leagues around, have wildly fled; 
 
THE RED EAGLE 25 
 
 And now while all the West in radiance swims, 
 The sun s last glory lingers on Fort Mimms! 
 
 II. 
 
 The scenes around are beautiful, 
 
 Though summer hath displaced 
 Much of the verdant loveliness 
 
 That in the spring-time, graced 
 These huge old forests, where the vines 
 
 With flashing leaves and flowers, 
 In gay festoons and playful twines, 
 
 Formed fair perennial bowers. 
 The spring-time s flush hath gone, but yet 
 
 Where yon secluded dell 
 Slopes gently to the river s brink, 
 
 What lingering graces dwell! 
 There beech and cedar overhead 
 
 Their tall trunks lift away, 
 And interlacing branches keep 
 
 A coolness all the day. 
 The large vines, coiled like serpents round 
 
 Their topmost limbs, descend 
 In long volutions to the ground, 
 
 And with the shrubbery blend. 
 
26 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Here sunbeams never fall at noon, 
 
 But summer keeps a shrine, 
 Where heart-sick lovers might repair, 
 
 To dream of things divine; 
 Or where the wild deer s antlered head 
 Might rest from fervid beam. 
 With sleepy coolness round him spread, 
 
 His large eyes like a dream ! 
 And in that bower, at this still hour, 
 
 A maiden form is seen, 
 Singing and swinging in the vines, 
 
 Like some young forest Queen! 
 
 III. 
 
 Seldom, if ever, in courtly bower, 
 
 Was maiden so fair as this Woodland Flower. 
 
 Her brow has the light by magnolia given, 
 
 When brightest it blooms in its own Southern heaven, 
 
 And the locks that swing back as she swings in the breeze, 
 
 Are dark as the raven s wing seen through the trees: 
 
 The bloom of the peach on her round cheek is spread, 
 
 Her lips, half-apart, dim the holly s pure red, 
 
 And her eyes, flashing wildly, when with gladness they 
 
 shine, 
 Have the dark liquid glow of the ripe muscadine; 
 
THE RED EAGLE 27 
 
 Though now, through their lashes,, a softness they take, 
 As. a star, at brown midnight, smiles up from a lake. 
 But her form, in its beauty, the eye can compare 
 To naught that is blooming around her there. 
 In symmetry perfect, you well can perceive, 
 Though small is her stature, the impress of Eve; 
 And the just budding beauties reveal to the sight 
 That, from girlhood, a woman comes perfect and bright. 
 Her garb is a strange one: around her small waist 
 Her light-flowing robe by rich wampum is laced; 
 And her small pointing feet, as they rise from the ground, 
 You may see with the bright-beaded moccasin bound. 
 A true child of nature, she swingeth in glee, 
 And ever thus singeth her wild melody: 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The blue-bird is whistling in Hillibee grove, 
 
 Terra-re! Terra-re! 
 
 His mate is repeating the tale of his love, 
 Terra-re! 
 
 But never that song, 
 
 As its notes fleet along, 
 
 So sweet and so soft in its raptures can be, 
 As thy low whispered words, young chieftain, to me. 
 
28 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Deep down in the dell is a clear crystal stream, 
 
 Terra-re! Terra-re! 
 Where, scattered like stars, the white pebbles gleam, 
 
 Terra-re! 
 
 But deep in my breast, 
 Sweet thoughts are at rest, 
 No eye but my own in their beauty shall see ; 
 They are dreams, happy dreams, young chieftain, of 
 thee. 
 
 The honey-bud blooms when the spring-time is green, 
 
 Terra-re! Terra-re! 
 And the fawn with the roe, on the hill-top is seen, 
 
 Terra-re! 
 
 But tis spring all the year, 
 When my loved-one is near, 
 
 And his smiles are like bright beaming blossoms to me, 
 Oh! to rove o er the hill-top, young chieftain, with thee! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The song is hushed: the maiden now 
 Puts back the rich locks from her brow. 
 And, gently ceasing from her sport, 
 Prepares to seek the guardian Fort. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 29 
 
 For twilight s gathering shades have spread 
 
 Their sombre silence overhead. 
 
 And the first young star, which Night receives, 
 
 In golden beauty through the leaves 
 
 Is lamp-like twinkling, herald sweet 
 
 Of trooping angels soon to meet, 
 
 With shining harps, and music give 
 
 To those blue bowers in which they live, 
 
 While downward comes, like tinkling rain. 
 
 O er all the woods, the choral strain. 
 
 But as she turns, the path to hie, 
 
 What form is this, which meets her eye? 
 
 An Indian warrior, tall and straight ! 
 
 A lordly pride is in his gait: 
 
 Above his head a red plume waves 
 
 The signal of Muscogee Braves ! 
 
 His tasseled hunting-shirt is green: 
 Beneath his gaudy wampum belt, 
 The scalping-knife s portentious helt, 
 
 And gleaming tomahawk are seen ! 
 
 Rich leggings of deep crimson dye, 
 
 Reveal his limbs firm symmetry, 
 
 While for his feet the wild-deer s skin 
 
 Has given the bead-decked moccasin. 
 
30 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Forest- Apollo ! form and face 
 Seem spirit-moulded into grace. 
 The maiden starts, as if to n*y, 
 But gazes back with curious eye, 
 Then utters forth a joyous cry, 
 And rushes into his embrace! 
 
 V. 
 
 "Oh, WEATHERFORD I" she faintly sighed ; 
 "My Forest Flower!" the chief replied, 
 And drew her to his manly breast, 
 And on her brow a kiss impressed. 
 "Why lingering at this dangerous hour, 
 Beyond the Fort, my Forest Flower? 
 Knows not the maid that dangers stand 
 Thick as the leaves, on every hand? 
 That now the red men, near and far, 
 Prepare the fierce avenging war? 
 That they have sworn to quench in blood, 
 The white fires of this gloomy wood, 
 And backward drive into the sea, 
 The invaders with their treachery? 
 Few weeks agone, vile murder gave 
 Our noblest youths to Burnt-Corn s wave, (1) 
 
THE RED EAGLE 31 
 
 And by all foes tis understood 
 The Indian s law is, blood for blood! 
 Even now our warriors gather round. 
 Fort Mimms dark devoted ground, 
 To crush with one relentless blow, 
 In blood and fire. the treacherous foe. 
 Why, then, shouldst thou, at this lone hour, 
 Expose thyself to savage power?" 
 
 "Ah, Weatherford, I know full well 
 
 The horrid history you tell: 
 
 The red man is my father s foe. 
 
 And meditates a desperate blow: 
 
 But sure my mother s child will be 
 
 Safe from his wrath and treachery: 
 
 For in these ruddy veins of mine 
 
 Flows the best blood of Indian line. 
 
 My mother was of his high race 
 
 Who gave our tribes this dwelling-place, 
 
 When from the prairied West they came, 
 
 New streams and hunting-grounds to claim. 
 
 But I had thought so thinks my sire, 
 
 The Eagle Chief had ceased his ire; 
 
32 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 That for their chiefs and kindred slain 
 
 Wewoka s braves had vengeance ta en; 
 
 And that mild peace would soon restore 
 
 The happiness we knew before, 
 
 And my own Weatherford re-seek the bower, 
 
 And once more bless with love his Forest Flower." 
 
 "It cannot be!" the warrior said, 
 "Till all these murderous hordes are dead. 
 Yon wheeling fire shall not again 
 The western waves with crimson stain, 
 Until the WHITE WOLF S throat shall feel 
 The vengeance of our bleeding steel; 
 Yon gloomy Fort, so tall and proud, 
 Shall, by the morrow s eve, be bowed 
 Low as the dead who now are borne 
 Upon the breast of wild Burnt Corn; 
 And I, this eve, have sought my Flower, 
 
 To warn her of the danger nigh, 
 
 And bid her with her warrior fly 
 In safety, to the distant bower, 
 The Holy Ground where no rude foot 
 
 Of Pale-face yet hath ever trod. 
 And hymns of praise are never mute 
 
THEREDEAGLE 33 
 
 To Manito the Red Man s God. 
 There now the young papooses play, 
 
 The squaws and maidens wampum twine, 
 And mighty prophets ever pray 
 
 For vengeance on the oppressor s line. 
 That prayer the great Breath-Giver s heard, 
 And he hath sept his holy word, 
 That, in this war, the Indian s hand 
 Shall sweep the white foes from the land, 
 And that proud empire be rebuilt, 
 Now lost by cowardice and guilt, 
 Till over Alabama s verdant breast, 
 
 Her eagled hills and deer-cropped dells, 
 
 In pride, the free-born Indian dwells, 
 As when, of old, he styled it, Here we rest! 
 
 Then, LILLA, bid these scenes farewell, 
 And quickly seek our Sacred Dell, 
 And there, till war s fierce storm is o er, in safety 
 dwell." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Oh, could you have seen her, that beautiful girl, 
 As she threw back her locks from her forehead of pearl, 
 While brilliant as star-light her eye-flashes beamed, 
 And over her bosom the red blushes streamed, 
 
34 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 As proudly she leaped from the warrior s embrace, 
 You d have marked in her wildness, her forest-born race. 
 "No, Weatherford, no!" she sternly replied, 
 "Lilla Beazely will ne er be the warrior s bride, 
 Whose hand with the blood of her father is red. 
 Though I love thee, brave chieftain," she faltering said, 
 "As the doe loves the wild-deer, the turtle her mate; 
 Though even, without thee, despair be my fate; 
 Though, the last Moon of Flowers, I pledged thee my 
 
 faith, 
 
 By the stars and the waters and the Master of Breath; 
 Yet never the Daughter will shrink from her sire, 
 Surrounded by slaughter and famine and fire. 
 Go, warrior, go, but in wandering know, 
 That if e er on my father falls thy terrible blow, 
 The child of the White Wolf is ever thy foe !" 
 
 She said, and as quick as a bird on the wing, 
 
 She dashed through the forest. The young savage king 
 
 One moment pursued her; but hist! on his ear, 
 
 The click of the terrible rifle rings near! 
 
 The quick, sharp report in an instant is heard, 
 
 And the plume of the chief by the bullet is stirred; 
 
 "Well aimed, old White Wolf!" he tauntingly said, 
 
 "But the scalp of the Eagle is still on his head ! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 35 
 
 Keep thy balls for the morrow; thou wilt need them, I 
 
 ween." 
 He turned through the thicket, and no longer was seen. 
 
 VII. 
 
 With many curses on his gun. 
 
 Which ne er before "such trick had done," 
 
 Old Beazely turns him to the Fort, 
 
 His luckless fortune to report. 
 
 A bluff old forester was he; 
 
 In manners rude, but bold and free; 
 
 Trained in the forest from a child, 
 
 His deepest lore was of the wild. 
 
 To chase the panther or the deer; 
 
 To lure the whistling turkey near, 
 
 Or trap the wolf, or wilier beaver 
 
 That architect of lonely river, 
 
 No hunter was more skilled than he. 
 With Spain s adventurers in his youth- - 
 
 Her missioned priests and traders bold, 
 He d traversed oft the broad green South, 
 
 From ocean s side to mountain-hold, 
 From Tampa s groves to Tennessee, 
 And every Indian tribe had seen, 
 
36 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 In every Indian village been. 
 Their modes, he knew,, their feelings, well; 
 Could every scheme or signal tell; 
 As bloodhound keen upon a trail, 
 His aim was never known to fail. 
 In hours of mirth, with spirits free, 
 He d join in boisterous revelry, 
 
 With all the gladness of a child; 
 And then the jest and song poured forth, 
 Garnished with many a curious oath; 
 But when his sterner blood was roused, 
 The panther, from her den unhoused, 
 
 Was not more terrible and wild. 
 
 These traits endeared him to the rude 
 Red dwellers of the solitude, 
 And, in their simple tongue, they gave 
 The title, "WHITE WOLF/ to the Brave. 
 Pleased with his worth, Coosauda s chief 
 
 Had given his daughter for his bride, 
 But, ere had fallen thrice the leaf, 
 
 Death snatched away the Hunter s pride. 
 
 Yet still in beauty by his side, 
 An infant flower sweetly moved, 
 The only human thing her father loved. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 37 
 
 Years passed: but when the sound of war 
 Disturbed the stillness of the tribes, 
 
 True to his blood, old Beazely turned, 
 Unshaken or by threats or bribes, 
 
 And sought the white man s home, to share 
 
 The gathering dangers which his eye discerned. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Still muttering curses on his luckless gun, 
 Old Beazely seeks the Fort. To meet him run 
 An hundred anxious faces, wild to know 
 The fate the number of the dreaded foe. 
 Short answer now the surly old man gives: 
 "Thunder and blood ! the cursed red-skin lives. 
 Old Rattler, here ne er missed before her aim, 
 But whiz! and phiz! th infernal hang-load came. 
 Well, be it so! when next the White Wolf yelps, 
 We ll see who safest wear their greasy skelps!" 
 Sc saying, through the crowd he presses on, 
 And seeks his daughter, where she weeps alone. 
 From her he learns the chieftain s vengeful threat, 
 His only answer, "We are safe as yet," 
 As briefly, too, the maiden he reproved, 
 For well he knew how deeply she had loved, 
 
38 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 A passion he himself had once approved. 
 
 For,, of Muscogees braves, no manlier one, 
 
 The old backwoodsman s wanderings had known, 
 
 Than Weatherword (2) young, eloquent and bold, 
 
 Loved by the young, and honored by the old. 
 
 His word in council, like a trumpet rang, 
 
 Aye first in pastime or in war he sprang, 
 
 No arm could swiftlier speed the light canoe, 
 
 Or wield the red club with a deadlier blow. 
 
 With these rude attributes, his youth combined 
 
 The nobler graces of a cultured mind, 
 
 Drawn from the white man s schools, but still his soul 
 
 Disdained the flowery fetters of control, 
 
 And turned, untamable, once more to trace 
 
 The paths and habits of his Ishmael race. 
 
 With them their noblest brave he was esteemed, 
 
 Their ruling chief in war or council deemed. 
 
 These forest virtues softer hearts impressed, 
 
 And the "RED EAGLE" held a kingly nest 
 
 In many a bosom mong Muscogee maids, 
 
 Whose warm eyes wooed him to the dogwood shades. 
 
 Old Beazely saw, with pride, ere war s alarms, 
 
 The chieftain s homage for his daughter s charms; 
 
 But now a sterner mood his soul possessed, 
 
 And bitterly his hatred he expressed: 
 
THEREDEAGLE 39 
 
 "Death to the dog! Don t cry your sweet eyes out, 
 The fool s not worth this whimpering about! 
 Go sleep, my child; I ll haste me and report 
 The skulking dangers that surround the Fort." 
 While thus the old man, in his anger goes, 
 View we the fortress and its lurking foes. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Upon a high uncultured glade 
 
 That slopes towards the river s side, 
 Fort Mimms was built, a rude stockade. 
 
 Whose walls the forest growth supplied 
 Slight were its fragile battlements, 
 
 The hardy Pioneers to guard, (3) 
 Who, from the neighboring settlements, 
 
 Thither had hastily repaired. 
 Brave men were they, and stout of arm 
 To do or dare, or shield from harm 
 In troublous times; but well they knew 
 Their meagre numbers all too few, 
 The savage foemen to withstand, 
 Who swarmed in thousands through the land, 
 Oh, twould have been a boon of joy 
 
40 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Could they have met in equal strife 
 Their savage foes, bent to destroy, 
 
 And periled with them life for life. 
 Each gathering then his rifle good, 
 Had sought no shelter but the wood, 
 Nor bridegroom to his marriage feast, 
 Nor penitent to shriving priest, 
 Nor maiden to her trysting bower, 
 Nor humming-bird to morning flower, 
 Nor school-boy to his evening play, 
 Had gone more readily than they 
 To that red field of shot and shout, 
 Where riots death in battle-rout! 
 And each would then have borne his part 
 Like Richard of the Lion-Heart, 
 Or William Tell in mountain deed, 
 Or Arnold of the Winkelried, 
 Or young Bozzaris when his name 
 Brought back to Greece her morning fame; 
 But pent and thwarted now they feel 
 That fierce despondence o er them steal, 
 Which generous Courage only knows, 
 When overpowered by its foes. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 41 
 
 Their families are round them here, 
 Clustered in wretchedness and fear, 
 Fair, trembling women, maid or wife 
 And children bright with first young life! 
 Here, too, the friendly Indians fled, 
 The Half-Bloods, overwhelmed with dread, 
 And all whose sentenced homes had heard 
 The shrill war-cry of Weatherford. 
 Five hundred souls have refuge sought 
 Within the crowded precincts of that Fort! 
 
 X. 
 
 But where is he, the red-plumed chief, who late 
 
 Wandered undaunted by that fortress gate? 
 
 Tis midnight deep, and far, with scattered beam, 
 
 The stars are rocking in the silent stream, 
 
 Like bright young children of some heavenly birth 
 
 Ccme down to bathe in fountains of the earth. 
 
 Far up the river, a shrill cry is heard, 
 
 The gloomy signal of night s ghostly bird, 
 
 Now, round yon headland, circles on the view, 
 
 The swan-like motion of a light canoe, 
 
 Swift through the darkness stealthily it glides, 
 
 And now, in shadow, bv the shore abides. 
 
42 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Again that signal,, "Whip- poor-will!" and lo! 
 Two shadowy forms are seen upon the shore. 
 The boatman joins them, and "What word," inquires, 
 "Brings the Great Prophet,, from the council fires?" 
 "Cahawba s braves have heard the Eagle s scream, 
 And here will join us by the morning s beam," 
 Tis good! and how does Hillis-hadjo speak?" 
 "My warriors all are by Pine-lo-la Creek." 
 Few words of council then the chieftains hold; 
 Their schemes and strategies are briefly told; 
 And entering cautiously their boat, the three 
 Glide o er the streams in hushed rapidity. 
 By a low island s shore, they stop, and soon 
 Stand in its centre, round an aged crone, 
 A gray old woman, in whose haggard face 
 All fiendish passions the keen eye might trace, 
 Above a low red fire she bends, and sings 
 A harsh, shrill ditty of demoniac things. 
 "Well, mighty witch!" the Eagle Chief demands, 
 "What says the Master, for his warrior bands?" 
 "Mine eyes, this night, have seen his mighty face: (4) 
 He sends glad vengeance for the Red Man s race. 
 
 Strike quick strike sure strike all, both old and 
 
 young. 
 "Said the Great Spirit, with his thunder-tongue, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 43 
 
 Speed the red fire, the scalping knife, and ball, 
 Till every Pale-face shall before you fall. 
 I, with the Red Man, will in battle go, 
 My fery shafts shall shatter down his foe, 
 The earth shall open f neath the White-dog s feet, 
 And thunder-stones upon his armies beat. 
 No harm shall on my red son light; but he 
 From powder, lead and steel, secure shall be, 
 And in his might, possess once more this land, 
 Which I framed for him with my own right hand! 
 
 As thus her prophecy, the old witch vowed, 
 The awe-struck chieftains, in her presence bowed. 
 Poor, superstitious wretches ! true they deem 
 The hideous fancies of the old hag s dream, 
 And, turning from her, deeply vow to keep 
 The dread fulfillment ere the morrow s sleep. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The sun is shining brightly 
 
 Above Fort Mimms, this morn; 
 All hearts are beating lightly, 
 
 For they have heard, with scorn, 
 
44 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Old Beazely s solemn warning 
 
 And his daughter s foolish tale: 
 "Bright smiles the rosy morning, 
 
 Why should the cheek be pale?" 
 So he, at least, who bore command, 
 In reckless mood, addressed his band, 
 A soldier old, of well-earned fame, 
 But maudlin now, and flushed in game: 
 "If aught the impius foe designed, 
 We should not know his secret mind. 
 He thinks, presumptuous hawk! to scare 
 Our dove-cotes, for his gibe and sneer! 
 Weak tremblers, no! close not the gate, 
 With open doors, his steps we ll wait." 
 
 Scarce had his lips the taunting spoke, 
 When on his ear the warwhoop broke, 
 
 Shrill as the cry of "Fire !" by night. 
 A rifle-shot ! and now another ! 
 
 And now a hundred rifles ring. 
 The sire and son, the maid and mother, 
 
 With wild confusion and affright, 
 
 From tent and bench and hassock spring. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 45 
 
 "To arms! to arms!" old Beazely cries: 
 "To arms ! to arms !" each lip replies. 
 "Close,, close the gate !" but. ah, too late, 
 The wily foe is at the gate. 
 With dreadful rush, and shout, and yell, 
 
 The combat thickens there: 
 The Pioneers support it well, 
 And soon the savages repel, 
 But many a valiant spirit falls, 
 
 Before the gate swings clear, 
 And by old Beazely s arm is closed, 
 So fiercely, bloodily, opposed ! 
 
 But now. with terrible report, 
 The savage rifles, round the Fort, 
 
 From every quarter ring: 
 
 Death struggles in on leaden wing, 
 A thousand warriors swell the cry, 
 The Indian s battle-melody, 
 
 And rush to scale the walls. 
 The inmates to the port-holes fly, 
 
 And pour their whole resistance out. 
 The foe recoils a moment back; 
 
 But louder swells the onset shout, 
 And now, amid the battle-rack, 
 
46 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 An Indian warrior is seen, 
 
 With hunting shirt of brightest green, 
 
 And crimson plume above his head, 
 Cheering the tawny warrior on; 
 "Remember, chieftains, wild Burnt Corn!" 
 One rush the palisades they gain 
 
 But many a warrior lies dead 
 Beneath the battle-rain! 
 
 Now rings below the fearful axe, 
 They cut the palisades away! 
 
 And arrows, lit with flaming flax, 
 Upon the house-tops, play! 
 
 The Pioneers their fire relax, 
 
 And hark ! gives way the palisade : 
 A chasm through the wall is made, 
 
 And inward rush the frantic foes, 
 With shout and yell, 
 
 That Heavenward rose, 
 
 Like merriment of fiends in hell! 
 
 Ah! then a deadlier strife began! 
 With gun to gun, and man to man, 
 
 They grapple in terrific close. 
 The rifles clubbed are snapped in twain, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 47 
 
 And skulls are cleft beneath their blows: 
 The war-club falls with plunging sound: 
 The tomahawk and scalping-knife 
 Hew down the woodman and his wife; 
 The infant s brains are scattered round! 
 
 Brave, brave, they fought, those forest men, 
 With overwhelming numbers then ! 
 Not manlier, in his mountain-pass, 
 Withstood the foe, Leonidas ! 
 Xor Xelson, on his slippery deck, 
 Amid the battle s storm and wreck! 
 And feebler woman, nerved by fear, 
 In the dread combat bore her share, 
 With frantic hope to save her child 
 From this red Herod of the wild! 
 But all in vain his strength and hers, 
 Xo mercy knew the murderers ! 
 
 And now, o er the buildings, the flames stream away, 
 
 And crackle and gnash in infuriate play; 
 
 And the vanquished who fly from the tomahawks doom, 
 
 In the flames of their houses find a terrible tomb! 
 
 Xo spot has a refuge, no corner a path, 
 
 By which to escape from wild Weatherford s wrath! 
 
48 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sun sank at evening as bright as his morn, 
 But the walls of Fort Mimms from his vision have gone; 
 And a gray drowsy smoke curls over the place, 
 Where yester dwelt manhood and beauty and grace. 
 Alas ! tis a signal of what has been done, 
 The carnage and rapine in the eye of that sun! 
 And the dark flapping vulture, that soars in the air, 
 Will soon, with the night-wolf, to those ruins repair, 
 And complete, in the face of the languishing moon, 
 The carnival dread, by the savage begun. 
 And that savage is far on his blood-dripping flight, 
 And the howl and the war-dance affrighten the night. 
 His scalps are five hundred! grim Weatherford smiles, 
 "The White Wolf has met the reward of his wiles !" 
 He says, and he turns, where, all bleeding and torn, 
 A pale, trembling captive, Lilla Beazely is borne. 
 The Red Eagle smiles, as he bears his bride home, 
 Undreaming the dread retribution to come! 
 
r 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 How sweet the rosy hours of peace ! 
 
 What blessings fall from them like flowers ! 
 
 Filling the groves with starry showers, 
 Filling all hearts with love and ease. 
 The garland decks the woodman s brow, 
 
 Cheering him onward in his toil: 
 Before his axe the forests bow, 
 
 The green corn sprouts above the soil. 
 Far through the trees, his new-built cot! 
 
 His sunny wife is singing there, 
 And smiling children. all forgot. 
 
 In present sport, their recent care. 
 
52 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 The tinkling bell gives signal round, 
 
 From vale and hill, of grazing flocks, 
 And, where yon beechen grove, is found 
 
 The crystal spring among the rocks ! 
 
 Such scenes as these are multiplied 
 
 Through all the frontiers, far and wide; 
 And, neath thy sceptre, gentle Peace, 
 The happy homes and scenes increase, 
 As hardy Pioneers speed on, 
 Their westward motion with the sun, 
 
 Like Vesper in the path of day, 
 Till, where unbroken wilds have spread, 
 From immemorial time, o erhead, 
 Their dreamy solitudes, they trace, 
 
 In lines that ne er shall pass away, 
 The first foundations of a race 
 Whose steepled empires there shall rise, 
 In civic splendor to the smiling skies ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Such scenes as these but yesterday, 
 From Georgian streams to Tennessee, 
 And far where Misissippi s vales 
 Feel the rich breath of Cuban gales. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 53 
 
 But, hark! what cry is that which sounds 
 
 In terror through the frontier-bounds?^ 
 
 "The wild Muscogee s bloody hand 
 
 Hath struck the settlers of the land, 
 
 At far Fort Mimms: five hundred lie 
 
 Butchered in cold barbarity! 
 
 To arms ! to arms ! the savage comes 
 
 With desolation for your homes. 
 
 To arms; and quick avenge the blow, 
 
 To arms ! and lay the fiendish murderers low !" 
 
 III. 
 
 As erst, through Scotia s stormy sky, 
 
 The Fire-Cross roused to battle-deeds, 
 Speeds through the frontiers now that cry, 
 
 That gathering-cry, an old man speeds. 
 He tells how from Fort Mimms he d fled, 
 The one survivor of her dead; 
 He paints the horrors of the strife, 
 The tomahawk, the scalping knife, 
 Manhood and youth, the maid, the wife, 
 
 In undistinguished slaughter blent! 
 And, oh, he weeps, a daughter fair, 
 Snatched from his eyes, and butchered there, 
 
54 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 The young, the fond, the innocent: 
 "My gentle Lilla there was slain, 
 And I shall never sleep again, 
 Until the cursed murderer s blood 
 Shall stream in rivers through their wood; 
 TiU blasted Weatherford shall feel, 
 Plunge through his heart, this hungry steel. 
 A mangled corpse, my Lilla lies ! 
 Revenge ! revenge ! revenge !" he madly cries. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Rings through the woods of Tennessee, 
 Rings over Georgian hills, that cry, 
 
 Down Mississippi to the sea, 
 
 And thousands to their standards fly. 
 
 Brave armies form, and leaders bold 
 
 Pour their dark squadrons through the wold. 
 
 From swarming north, and east and west, 
 
 Muskogee s borders they invest. 
 
 O er Chattahoochee s silvery stream, 
 
 The arms of Floyd and Pinckney beam; 
 
 By dark Tombecbee, Claiborne comes, 
 
 Frightening the echoes with his drums; 
 
THEREDEAGLE 55 
 
 And, from the north, a bolder yet 
 
 Spurs through the forest; bayonet 
 
 And sword and flag the distance fill, 
 
 Long-gleaming over Coosa s hill ! 
 
 Brave Jackson leads his warriors down 
 
 By Indian hunting-range and town, 
 
 And from their ranks, the cry is heard, 
 
 "Revenge, revenge, on Weatherford! 
 
 No mercy shall the murderers know, 
 
 Who crushed Fort Mimms with treacherous blow." 
 
 V. 
 
 In vain the Indians stem their course, 
 
 They hew the red ranks down, each day, 
 And press, with overwhelming force, 
 
 Into the Nation s heart, their way. 
 At Tallashatchee s fatal ground, 
 
 By Talladega s leaguered fort, 
 And Hillibee, the Red Man found, 
 
 From death and ruin, no resort. 
 In vain they struggled, vain they shed 
 Their blood like water, till all red 
 Their creeks and rivers ran with gore, 
 And butchered hundreds strewed the shore. 
 
56 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 The invader s martial skill outvies 
 
 Their simple arms and battle cries, 
 
 And crushes, with an iron hand, 
 
 The fairest regions of their much-loved land. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Ah, demon War! what scenes of woe 
 
 Rise ever in thy fearful path! 
 The green land reddens neath thy blow, 
 
 And wilts before thy fiery wrath. 
 The orphan s tears, the widow s wail, 
 
 The father s curse, denote thy way, 
 The plundered town, the smoking vale, 
 
 The white bones bleaching in the day. 
 They call thee glorious! yet thy plumes, 
 
 Nod as they may, are bathed in blood, 
 Thy splendor human hope consumes, 
 
 Thy field of fame, death s solitude! 
 And though full-well deserved the doom 
 
 On Alabama s children brought, 
 Yet who but weeps the woe and gloom, 
 
 Demon! thy twenty battles wrought! 
 
THEREDEAGLE 57 
 
 VII. 
 
 Through all those fierce and bloody fields, 
 
 One arm terrific vengeance wields; 
 
 He guides the conquerors through the wood, 
 
 To each inviolate solitude; 
 
 Applies the torch with readiest hand, 
 
 To every wigwam in the land; 
 
 Aye, foremost in the hottest strife, 
 
 He riots in the loss of life; 
 
 Before his blows the stoutest fall; 
 
 No foe escapes his rifle ball; 
 
 His red eyes gleam with fiendish fire; 
 
 His wrinkled cheeks are pale with ire. 
 
 "Ah, yes !" he cries, "they long shall rue 
 
 The hellish deed they dared to do, 
 
 And, in their graves, remember well 
 
 The music of the White Wolfs yell !" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But not in the paths of their armies alone, 
 
 Were the vengeance and strength of the conquerors 
 
 shown. 
 
 Brave spirits there were who roamed through the wood. 
 And enacted bold deeds, as avengers of blood. 
 
58 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 Hear the story of three, whose memories long 
 Should live in the flower-crowned annals of song. (5) 
 
 Where proudly and dark, through cedar-topped shores, 
 
 Alabama s broad wave in magnificence pours, 
 
 Behold, round yon islet, a gallant canoe, 
 
 With savages crowded, dashes out on the view. 
 
 All painted and plumed, they lift their war-scream, 
 
 And shoot, like an arrow, athwart the broad stream. 
 
 But now, from yon covert, a white bark appears, 
 And swift for the foeman triumphantly bears. 
 Its crew are but three, yet no danger they fear, 
 But dash to the conflict, with resolute cheer. 
 
 In the reel of the waters, with terrible shock, 
 The light barks encounter, and stagger and rock. 
 Now grappled together, the war-club and knife 
 And short swinging rifle clash in desperate strife. 
 
 Ah ! son of the forest, bend, bend to thy blow ! 
 Brave soul of the Saxon, thrice-fold is thy foe ! 
 Ah ! never before, in the battle s wild deed, 
 Had each for his strength and his courage such need! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 59 
 
 The combat is brief: the fierce struggle is done, 
 And the late foaming waters in red ripples run. 
 The conflict is over; but the conquerors who? 
 Ah ! see the brave three, alone on the view ! 
 
 Their foemen have perished; the dark sweeping wave 
 Has given each chieftain a cold silent grave, 
 And now o er the stream, though exhausted and pale, 
 In triumph glide homeward, SMITH, AUSTILL and DALE ! 
 Three cheers for their names ! and their memories long 
 Shall live in the flower-crowned annals of song! 
 
 IX. 
 
 As, from their moorings rudely riven, 
 
 Frail barks are tossed on stormy seas, 
 And headlong to destruction driven 
 Before the wild, impetuous breeze; 
 So from the conqueror s whirlwind path, 
 Before his unrelenting wrath, 
 The Red possessors of the woods, 
 Are driven through their solitudes. 
 Where now thy boast, proud Eagle chief, 
 
 Thou of the kingly heart and eye? 
 Is this dread doom of blood and grief, 
 Thy followers promised victory ? 
 
60 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Thy voice has cheered them to the field, 
 But where thy proud prophetic shield? 
 Is not thy stout soul quelled and bowed, 
 Before the foes that round thee crowd? 
 
 Ah, no ! Red King ! I hear thy signal cry 
 
 Still ring undaunted through the forest sky; 
 
 And now, where far thy loved and native stream 
 
 Flows green and golden through the morning s gleam, 
 
 I see thy light bark o er waters bound, 
 
 And bear thee swiftly to the Holy Ground. 
 
 E-chan-a-cha-ca! ne er to raptured sight (6) 
 
 Spread out a land more beautiful and bright. 
 
 The Indian Eden ! where he fondly deems 
 
 Still smiles the Great One, o er its azured streams. 
 
 For many a league, the broad slopes sweep away, 
 
 O erhung with groves of hickory, beech and bay; 
 
 All forest trees that mark the generous soil, 
 
 The gnarled white-oak, and the large vine s coil, 
 
 The sugar-maple and tulip high, 
 
 Lift their huge branches to the favoring sky. 
 
 When Spring comes smiling over hill and dale. 
 
 What light and fragrance in these woods prevail; 
 
 Then all his banners of far-flushing green, 
 
 O er every forest monarch s tent, are seen. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 61 
 
 The graceful dogwood waves his crown of flowers, 
 Diffusing snow-stars through the vistaed bowers. 
 The tasseled chinkapin perfumes the hill; 
 The luscious honeysuckles, by the rill. 
 Faint with a sweetness which by far excels 
 All the rich odors of Cathayan dells. 
 And oh, what minstrelsy of bee and bird. 
 Thioughout the greenful paradise is heard! 
 The mock-bird, swinging on the locust limb, 
 Pours down the forest a perpetual hymn: 
 The whistling partridge in the meadow-grass, 
 The amorous wild-duck on her swaying grass, 
 The chattering blue-jay, and the pine-perched crow, 
 And screaming river-crane, with wing of snow, 
 Their motley voices through the green aisles fling, 
 And keep the anthems of orchestral Spring! 
 Tis Winter now: but still the land displays 
 O er hill, and slope, and dell, its peerless grace. 
 Well had the Red Man chosen here a seat 
 For ever sacred from intruders feet. 
 Here through the trees his scattered wigwams rise. 
 The blue smoke rippling slowly to the skies : 
 Around each door the naked children play; 
 The squaws are at their labor all the day; 
 
62 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 And through the vistas on the stream you view 
 The patient fisher in his still canoe ! 
 These clustered cabins form a village group, 
 Where sounds discordantly the drunken whoop; 
 In yonder open space, with circuit wide, 
 Behold the Council-House, in bark-built pride; 
 Where savage statesmen hold their Congress rude, 
 And gravely cogitate "the nation s good I" 
 Here, too, the Prophets of the Simple Race 
 Keep in these druid groves their dwelling place. 
 Rude their religion: yet they deem that death, 
 Brings to the warrior, immortal breath, 
 And that his spirit, in the Sunset Groves, 
 By clearer streams, and greener prairies, roves, 
 Where, ever bounding, with his silver horns, 
 The white deer glistens through the grassy lawns; 
 The screaming eagle, with his prismic plumes, 
 The forest mountain s solitude illumes; 
 And timorous turkey, and impassive bear, 
 Await the shadowy braves and hunters there. 
 Few points of earthlier faith they own, but this 
 The best assurance of eternaJ bliss, 
 To hate the White Man, with their latest breath, 
 Nor yield to any conquerors save Death ! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 63 
 
 The milder features of the Christian s school, 
 Peace and forgiveness soften not their rule; 
 These, like the light of phantom stars, they hold, 
 Deceptive doctrines, faithless as they are cold. 
 
 Such their religion : such the Holy Ground, 
 Where all Muscogee s warriors now are found. 
 Before the dread invader s wrath they ve come, 
 To seek the shelter of their Sacred Home, 
 And from their mighty Prophets gain the spell 
 That shall their haughty conquerer repel. 
 Here the Red Eagle dwells, whose voice once more, 
 Their ancient strength and courage mav restore. 
 Where roves he now, their bravest and their best? 
 Why seeks the kingly bird his myrtle nest? 
 
 A cottage by a pebbly creek 
 
 Whose rimpling waters slide along, 
 
 With lapse and gush, as if they seek 
 To syllable themselves in song. 
 
 Soft groves of bay and cedar round 
 Perpetual shade and greenness keep, 
 
 And fleck with beauty all the ground, 
 
64 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 With mottled shade and beauty deep, 
 Within the cot, a plaining hymn 
 
 In tones that flutter like a bird s 
 Sweet as the chant of seraphim, 
 
 Yet sad as memory s fureral words. 
 Pass through the door: a weeping girl 
 
 Is seated in yon dim recess; 
 Her brow is whiter than the pearl, 
 
 But hid by many a raven tress. 
 She weeps and sings: "My father dear, 
 
 Long months have passed since thou wert slain; 
 And I, a wretched captive here, 
 
 In orphaned loneliness remain. 
 The heartless savage ever keeps 
 
 His gloomy watch about my way ; 
 His vigilance ne er tires nor sleeps, 
 
 But notes my footsteps night and day, 
 God of the Christian! hear my prayer! 
 
 Avenge my father s cruel death! 
 And oh! his suffering daughter bear 
 
 To thy embrace, great Sire of Breath! 
 Bear me away from this abode 
 
 Of lust and rapine, crime and grief; 
 And, though my heart should break, oh God! 
 
 Hurl to the dust this savage chief! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 65 
 
 Red Eagle ! well they call his name, 
 
 His talons are imbrued in gore ! 
 Yet once I loved his regal fame, 
 
 All earthly pride and hope before. 
 But oh, my father, through the night, 
 
 Revenge ! I hear thy ghostly cry. 
 Thy white locks stream upon my sight, 
 
 Thy strong voice ever pealing by; 
 Oh God !" She starts and stops the wail, 
 
 A shadow darkens by the door ! 
 Her heart beats thick, her cheek grows pale, 
 
 A strong step on the creaking floor! 
 Fills up the door a lofty form, 
 
 With waving plumes and rifle gun, 
 And glittering scarf, and wampum charm, 
 
 Bright-flashing from the outward sun. 
 One hurried glance, then sinks her head 
 
 Upon her heaving breast of snow, 
 And tremblingly she hears his tread 
 
 Approach her presence, soft and slow. 
 "Still weeps the maid? has she no word 
 
 To greet her warrior from the fight? 
 Why, even the passive forest bird 
 
 Welcomes her lover with delight. 
 
66 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Still beats thy heart with deadly hate 
 
 For one who glad would die for thee? 
 Oh, Lilla, tis unkindest fate 
 
 Thus exiled from thy love to be. 
 I well can stem the stormy fight, 
 
 The victor s blows and fiery breath, 
 But oh, thy coldness is a blight 
 
 Upon my soul more deep than death ! 
 Look up, my girl! for weary weeks 
 We have not met, look up, and smile ! 
 From strife and storm, the Eagle seeks 
 
 The music of the Dove awhile!" 
 
 XJ 
 
 She lifts up her brow, from her eye gleams a light, 
 Like the fire-fly s lamp, through the shadows of night. 
 Her lips, blue as ashes, are quivering apart, 
 
 And list! neath her vestment the beat of her heart. 
 
 
 
 One moment she gazes all throbbing and dumb, 
 And then, like a torrent, the pent feelings come: 
 "Vile chieftain, away! begone from my sight, 
 Thou hast withered my soul with demoniac blight. 
 The blood of my father is red on thy hands, 
 And ever beside thee, his bleeding ghost stands ! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 67 
 
 Away from my vision ! the love I once cherished, 
 Weatherford, for thee, in anguish has perished, 
 And now in my bosom dwell hate and revenge, 
 And purposes dire, that never shall change. 
 Oh, daily I pray to the Master of Breath, 
 To whelm thy proud form neath the waters of death; 
 And sooner a corse neath thy hatchet I d be, 
 Than dwell in love s union, one moment with thee!" 
 
 XII. 
 
 "Oh, Lilla! stay this flood of ire." 
 The gloomy chieftain said. "Thy sire 
 Was not by me in battle slain. 
 My heart, for thy dear sake, would fain 
 Have saved him from the dreadful blow 
 That laid black Mim ms s murderers low. 
 I charged my warriors, one and all, 
 That, safe from knife and club and ball, 
 They should preserve the White Wolf s form: 
 But, dearest, in the battle s storm, 
 Amid the wild tumultuous fight, 
 
 Though harmless from our rifles aims, 
 He vanished from my watchful sight. 
 
 And must have perished in the flames." 
 
68 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 "Oh, cease!" she cried, "the horrid story, 
 Rack not my brain with this wild theme, 
 
 Amid the flames, all torn and gory, 
 I see his white locks wildly stream! 
 
 Away !" she cried with piercing scream. 
 
 "Away!" and in insensate dream, 
 
 As snaps the lily in the breeze, 
 
 Or falls the stricken dove from the trees, 
 
 She sank before the warrior s feet, 
 
 As pale, as motionless, as sweet! 
 
 XIIJ 
 
 The midnight moon, like a silver ship, 
 
 O er the isle-starred deeps, is climbing now, 
 And as onward she sweeps with broadening dip, 
 
 The blue waves slope round her shining prow. 
 How proudly she veers in the heavenward breeze! 
 
 And list like the clink of stars, you hear 
 Her cordage creak, as she quells the seas, 
 
 And onward bears in her high career! 
 Thus seemeth the moon in the upward deep, 
 
 But over the earth her sweet light falls, 
 As calm and as white as the rays that sleep 
 
 Round a festal lamp in marble halls ! 
 
THEREDEAGLE 69 
 
 Her white rays sleep on the silvered woods, 
 
 On the sliding stream, and prairie s breast, 
 And all through their breathless solitudes, 
 
 They seem by the gentle spell possessed. 
 Like a shrine of love, mid the cedar trees, 
 
 The cot by the creek, in the beauty stands. 
 How hushed! oh, it seems that the wing of Peace, 
 
 To Eden quiet, that cottage fans ! 
 But look though yon window where the moon goes in, 
 
 A lovely girl on a couch asleep; 
 Her bosom heaves neath its vestment thin, 
 
 And even in slumber she seems to weep. 
 What silvered light on those rounded arms ! 
 
 Her coal-black hair o er her shoulder strays, 
 On that brow and lip what heavenly charms ! 
 
 Round that shrouded form what human grace ! 
 She sleeps and dreams : from her quivering lips, 
 
 Listen! you hear the half- formed words, 
 "Weatherford ! father!" and then outslips 
 
 A sigh as faint as a wounded bird s ! 
 She stirs, and she wakes, and her lifted lids 
 
 Reveal to her eyes the snowy moon! 
 She listens, and hears but the katydids 
 Or merrier cricket s all-night tune. 
 
70 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Ah yes ! the sturdy breathings now come, 
 
 Of a manly bosom slumbering near: 
 He sleeps on the floor, in the shade of the room, 
 
 On the rugged furs of the bear and deer ! 
 She holds her breath, and listens a space. 
 
 "Ah, yes! it must be done!" she sighed: 
 She turns, and slips from her resting-place, 
 
 And stands by the sleeping warrior s side. 
 He sleeps, forgetful of war and guilt; 
 
 Unclinched, by his side, his rifle lies; 
 Neath his wampum belt, his scalp-knife s hilt 
 
 Catches the gleam of the maiden s eyes. 
 She slips the knife from its easy sheath; 
 
 She feels for the beat of the sleeper s heart; 
 One moment more, and thy hand, oh Death! 
 
 Shall rend that body and soul apart. 
 She lifts the blade! when, hark! on her ear., 
 
 The distant sound of a rifle rings ! 
 She drops the knife, with the sudden fear, 
 
 And up, from his couch, the warrior springs. 
 He seizes the arm of the trembling girl, 
 
 "What does the maid by the warrior s side? 
 My knife ! ah yes ! thy purpose I see ! 
 
 Thou, truly, art fit for the Eagle s bride! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 71 
 
 But back to thy couch,, and seek repose; 
 For, although to die, I am nothing loth 
 
 Yet, beautiful trembler, spare thy blows, 
 
 For soon enough death will come to us both." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Down by the creek, the warrior goes 
 Where on through reeded banks it flows ; 
 Across the narrow stream he leaps, 
 And up the straggling pathway keeps. 
 Soon moving through the forest wide, 
 He sees dark forms around him glide; 
 Far through the trees they wave along, 
 A gloomy and commingled throng. 
 Now passes he a clamorous group, 
 Who wake the night with dance and whoop; 
 Now round a watch-fire s ruddy glare, 
 Wild forms he views, all stark and bare, 
 Who laugh and yell, as some bold wight 
 Recounts his ventures in the fight, 
 And shows the scalp all reeking red, 
 Torn from the butchered White Man s head 
 
 Throughout the startled Holy Ground, 
 Such scenes as these, tonight abound; 
 
72 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 And as the chieftain onward goes, 
 His regal form each warrior knows, 
 And, while he passes, all proclaim, 
 With shouts of pride, the Eagle s name. 
 
 Now, through the village street, he turns, 
 Where many a blazing watch-fire burns, 
 Mid savage scream, and wild carouse, 
 And silent seeks the Council House. 
 He enters, and around the room, 
 A hundred blazing torches lume, 
 And shed a red funereal glare 
 Upon the forms assembled there. 
 These, in the centre, on the ground, 
 In savage state are seated round. 
 And plumed and painted, grim and stark, 
 Their rank, strange decorations mark. 
 The shaggy furs of wolf and bear. 
 The vaunted warrior-chiefs declare: 
 The tufted crests of owl and crow. 
 The consecrated prophets show; 
 Bracelets of silver please the eye, 
 Rich wampum belts of varied dye, 
 Ear-rings and medals, beads and shells. 
 And necklaces of tiny bells. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 73 
 
 Silent they sit, in thought profound, 
 While slow the black-drink passes round. 
 And graver pipe, whose drowsy fumes 
 Blend with their meditative glooms. 
 The Eagle enters, and assumes 
 His seat amid the circle grave. 
 Quickly his eye, o er sage and brave, 
 Glances inquiringly, as if 
 To read the purpose of each chief. 
 "Why rings the signal at this hour/ 
 He asks, "within the Prophet s bower? 
 Speak, Hillis-hadjo; have the spies 
 Brought word or sign of enemies?" 
 "Yes, mighty chieftain, they report 
 
 That Claiborne, with two thousand men. 
 
 Is camped tonight, by Uchee glen, 
 And with his army, it is thought, 
 Will, ere the dawn-star shall appear, 
 In all his strength, attack us here!" 
 "Bold fool; and does he dare invest 
 The Eagle s consecrated nest? 
 By great Manito! he shall weep 
 His rashness, in destruction deep! 
 This is the Master s chosen land, 
 
74 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 Protected by his own great hand; 
 Our holy prophet s spells have given 
 A wall around it, high as heaven; 
 No impious Pale-faoe e er shall tread, 
 In safety, on its fertile bed; 
 The air shall turn to sheets of flame, 
 And drive him back in fear and shame; 
 The earth shall neath his footsteps reel; 
 The clouds hurl on him shafts of steel; 
 And he shall find, weak fool and knave, 
 The Holy Ground, the White Man s gravel 
 So legends of our fathers say, 
 Transmitted from our earliest day, 
 Go, warriors, then, and quick prepare 
 The morning s victory to share, 
 And from these fools to reap at last 
 Revenge for all our sufferings past. 
 But first, to chase away each timid thought, 
 Go, speed the dance by great Tecumseh taught !- 
 
 When, from the northern lakes, 
 
 Through gloomy wilds and dismal brakes, 
 He sought our sunny land, 
 
 And taught our chiefs and braves, 
 
 No longer to be timid slaves, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 75 
 
 But gainst our foes to stand, 
 In the Great League embraced 
 With all the red tribes of the West: 
 For so the scattered stars of night, 
 By day in one great orb unite, 
 And form the sun s majestic light!" 
 
 XV. 
 
 Where, unobstructed from the sky, 
 The moon looks down with silver eye. 
 
 Upon a wide and level plain, 
 With circling steps, now fast, now slow, 
 
 To music s wild, discordant strain, 
 In mazy whirl, the dancers go. 
 But strange the forms commingled there, 
 Not human, but the wolf and bear, 
 The antlered deer, the horned bull, 
 The panther sleek and beautiful. 
 The prancing horse, the fox and goat, 
 The wild boar, with his bristled throat; 
 And others of as strange a mien. 
 In oddest pageantry is seen, 
 With wild confusedness arrayed 
 In strange and beastly masquerade. 
 
76 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 To rattling drum and pealing horn, 
 
 They sweep their antic motions on, 
 
 While each with emulating throat 
 
 Pours forth his own discordant note. 
 
 The clustered savages about 
 
 Gaze en the scene with laugh and shout: 
 
 And as some lecherous movement meets their eyes 
 
 Reduplicate their wild unearthly cries! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But now the frolic scene is over: 
 
 The beastly masquers disappear, 
 And soon the savages discover 
 
 Their chiefs and prophets sweeping near. 
 Each in his war-plumes is bedecked, 
 
 Stripped and girdled for the fight, 
 
 Painted blue and black and white. 
 And with strange figures strangely flecked. 
 Rifle and club and scalping knife 
 Are placed in order for the strife. 
 Soon to the music s quicker flow 
 The chiefs in wild contortions go. 
 And onward press, with circles wide 
 Till round one central shaft they glide, 
 
THEREDEAGLE 77 
 
 Where, waving in the midnight breeze 
 
 That faintly ripples from the trees. 
 
 The blood-stained locks and curls are placed, 
 
 That once Fort Mimms s victims graced. 
 
 Ah, manhood, beauty, love and truth. 
 
 Is this the dreamy promise of thy youth I 
 
 XVII. 
 
 As thus they speed the frantic dance, 
 Waving aloft the club and lance, 
 And in the moonlight toss and glance, 
 
 Like demons at some hellish rite, 
 The leader of the dusky throng, 
 Wild Weatherford, pours forth a song, 
 That like a torrent sweeps along 
 
 The channels of the startled night, 
 And rings with choral swell and bound, 
 From every lip throughout the Holy Ground. 
 
 WAR SONG. 
 
 Muscogee! Muscogee! arouse to the fight, 
 And burst on the foe in full fury and might! 
 His step on the graves of your fathers is seen, 
 He leads his fierce hordes through your orchards of 
 green ; 
 
78 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 O er your streams and your prairies, his dark shadow 
 
 lies, 
 
 And the smoke of his conquest dims the blue of your skies ! 
 Then rouse ye to battle! oh, why will ye sleep! 
 And burst on the foe as the wolf on the sheep! 
 Ho! Muscogee! Muscogee! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Muscogee! Muscogee! oh, where are the braves, 
 Who once hurled their wrath on the heads of these 
 
 knaves ? 
 
 Remember the blows our forefathers strook! 
 Remember the scalps and the horses they took! 
 Oh, the flames of their carnage, like the moon, lit the 
 
 night, 
 And the eye of the Great One, in the redness, flashed 
 
 bright. 
 
 We too are as brave, let us rush on the foe, 
 And crush his proud head, with one terrible blow! 
 Ho! Muscogee! Muscogee! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Muscogee! Muscogee! the Master of Breath 
 
 Will shield his Red Sons from the arrows of death. 
 
 But, oh, if a brave in the battle should fall, 
 
 His glorious fate is the noblest of all! 
 
 For then, in the groves of the sun-goldened West, 
 
 With the chiefs and the hunters, his spirit shall rest! 
 
THE REDE A OLE 79 
 
 Then ye who would live, or ye who would die. 
 In honor and bliss, to the red battle fly ! 
 
 Ho! Muscogee! Muscogee! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 Muscogee! Muscogee! be brave in the strife, 
 And wield, like the lightnings, the war-club and knife. 
 Keep your eye to the rifle, your hand to the axe. 
 And sweep down the foe, as the flame sweeps the flax. 
 No mercy, no quarter ! make the rivers run red, 
 And fill up the hollows with piles of the dead. 
 Do this, and your land from the tyrant is free, 
 And your nation for ever triumphant shall be ! 
 Ho! Muscogee! Muscogee! 
 
 Ho! Ho! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Scarce had the wild notes died away, 
 
 Of mingled shout and song, 
 The clash of arms in mimic fray, 
 
 The murmurs of the motley throng, 
 When, at a signal from the chief, 
 In tones significant as brief, 
 The preparations all were made, 
 
80 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 To meet the coming strife; 
 The bands are hastily arrayed, 
 
 With rifle, club and knife; 
 Some to a distant point are sent, 
 Th incautious foe to circumvent; 
 Some lurk along the river s side; 
 Those mid the hills and hollows hide; 
 And these, a chosen force, remain, 
 To brunt the conflict on the plain. 
 All, by the Eagle s words, are fired, 
 With rage and confidence inspired, 
 And all depart with courage high, 
 That, when the morning tints the sky, 
 Their gallant arms revenge shall reap, 
 And from the earth, their white foes sweep. 
 High joy is in their hearts; no bliss 
 Their bosoms know, more dear than this 
 The hope of conflict, rapine, blood, 
 The death-shriek ringing through the wood. 
 
 Poor, fated wretches ! little deem 
 Their hearts, how idle is their dream, 
 That Death, the Reaper, waiting stands, 
 To mow, like grass, their warrior bands, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 81 
 
 And that the coming sun will show 
 
 Their vaunted strength all crushed and low, 
 
 And Alabama s current strong 
 
 Breathe o er their bones its funeral song! 
 
 And yet, with pulses throbbing high, 
 
 The fire of joy in every eye, 
 
 They turn them to the field of strife. 
 
 Like revelers to some scene of life! 
 
 But ere the Chieftain seeks the field, 
 With heart that will not brook to yield. 
 A chosen band he sends to bear 
 The squaws and young papooses, where, 
 In safety they shall all remain. 
 Whoe er the bloody field may gain. 
 But, chief of all, he charges them, 
 
 His own Wild Flower to shield from harm, 
 The bright Plume in his diadem! 
 
 His bosom s only light and charm! 
 And then, with one wild whoop, departs, 
 To cheer his followers faithful hearts. 
 And with them wait the first red ray, 
 That heralds in the dawn of Battle s day! 
 
82 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The morning came up with its saffron and red, 
 
 And the clouds of the east, like gay banners were spread, 
 
 And the sky, o er the forest, was leaning like love, 
 
 And all seemed contentment and beauty above! 
 
 But the sounds of the conflict were busy below, 
 
 The shot of the White Man: the shout of the foe: 
 
 O er hill, and down valley, by river and creek, 
 
 The dark rushing columns, the death groan and shriek, 
 
 The sharp ringing rifle, the musket s dull sound, 
 
 And the boom of the cannon o er the quivering ground ! 
 
 Hark ! the drum drowns the whoop, and the bugle s fierce 
 
 breath 
 
 Cheers the dark squadrons on to the banquet of death! 
 Now, encountering closely, the war-club and knife 
 Meet the bayonet and sword in desperate strife: 
 But soon, driven back in the rush of the foe. 
 The Red Men retreat from his terrible blow. 
 In vain by the turn of yon headland they rally; 
 In vain they bear up in the gorge of that valley; 
 In vain on the flanks of the columns they rush, 
 Or strive by dense numbers the vanguard to crush: 
 In vain, gallant Eagle, thy war-scream is heard. 
 And thy pluoie borne in front, like the conqueror-bird; 
 
THEREDEAGLE 83 
 
 Thy red arm, unbared, seeks the thick of the fight, 
 But thy braves are soon scattered in panic and flight; 
 The flames of thy village flash red through the trees, 
 The shouts of the victor come down on the breeze, 
 And the feet of the White Dogs triumphantly stand, 
 Unscathed, in the heart of thy beautiful land ! 
 Ah, Red Chief and Prophet, where now is thy boast? 
 Thy home and thy refuge and kingdom are lost! 
 No hope now, nor mercy ! thy foemen have sworn 
 Thy life for thy merciless deeds shall atone. 
 Heard st not, through the storm of the battle, their cry 
 "Revenge for Fort Mimms; let the murderers die!" 
 Then fly through the forest ! thy swift charger may 
 From yon gathering horsemen, bear thee safely away ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 Along the river s southern shore, 
 
 The Chieftain spurs with desperate speed; 
 A hundred horsemen round him pour, 
 
 And press upon his wounded steed. 
 On either hand they hem his path, 
 
 With shot and shout and vengeful cries; 
 One only refuge now he hath, 
 
 And for the river s bank he flies. 
 
84 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 Soon., soon,, he gains the wished-for shore, 
 
 But, ah, what dreadful doom is this ! 
 The stream a hundred feet below, 
 
 He on a beetling precipice ! 
 The foemen shout! with fierce despair, 
 
 He turns and gazes where they come. 
 Ah ! yields the lion in the snare ? 
 
 Is this, proud chief, thy wretched doom? 
 Ah, no! his snorting steed he reins, 
 
 And lifts his rifle to his eye; 
 Death-blood the foremost foeman stains, 
 
 And peals the warrior s taunting cry ! 
 He whirls the frantic steed around: 
 
 One moment, totters o er the brink, 
 And then, with sudden spur and bound, 
 
 Like lightning, down the void they sink! 
 Down, down, the steed and rider fly, 
 
 And hark! comes back the steed s wild scream! 
 Now lost they are to ear and eye, 
 
 And sink beneath the plashing stream! 
 Gaze o er the cliff, the baffled foe, 
 
 Struck mute, they gaze with doubt and fear, 
 How still the distant waters flow ! 
 
 Nor steed nor rider re-appear. 
 
THEREDEAGLE 85 
 
 Ah yes ! on yonder bank behold, 
 The Eagle dashes from the stream, 
 
 And, ere he turns him through the wold, 
 In pride hurls back his battle scream! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 CANTO THIRD. 
 I. 
 
 SPRING on the Southern hills 
 
 The music and the light of Spring! 
 
 What voices from a thousand rills ! 
 
 What bright birds on the wing ! 
 
 How like a bride, the Earth 
 
 Her roving lover smiles to meet! 
 
 And, wreathed in flowers, with minstrel mirth, 
 
 Woos to her couch his feet! 
 
 Not in the song-loved East, 
 Diviner spells were ever given, 
 By fair Circassians flowery feast, 
 
 Or Paphia s sunset heaven! 
 
90 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 Stand with me on this mound, 
 And gaze with swimming eyes below: 
 Greens not yon turf like fairy ground, 
 
 Beneath some white moon s glow? 
 
 This sphered tomb we tread. 
 Is shrine-like, too, bedecked with green; 
 How sweetly sleep the olden dead, 
 
 Its sloping sides between! 
 
 Look down yon vine-hung lane, 
 The fair magnolia s fragrant bowers! 
 Oh, seem they not some Emir s train, 
 
 So moonlike in their flowers? 
 
 These tall old trees behold 
 With renovated trunks they rise, 
 Their summits bathed in molten gold. 
 Both shut from us the skies. 
 
 Hark! overhead the screams 
 Of green and gold-winged birds are loud! 
 Brave paroquets ! they ve sought these streams, 
 
 A wheeling, noisy crowd! 
 
 And now the mock-bird s note 
 Gomes, glass-like, ringing on the breeze! 
 How sweet its changing currents float 
 
 Through these old silent trees! 
 
THEREDEAGLE 91 
 
 Well might the dreamer think 
 
 Some Dian s hand these forests gave, 
 
 Ah ! see her wild-deer stoop to drink 
 
 From yonder pebbly wave! 
 
 All o er the sunny land, 
 The same wild beauties spread. 
 From Fair Tuscala s rocky strand, 
 
 To Coosa s green-rimmed bed! 
 
 And who can view this scene, 
 So peaceful, Eden-like and quiet, 
 And think that it has ever been 
 
 The home of war and riot! 
 
 II 
 
 Yet war s wild banners late were seen, 
 
 Beneath these groves of peaceful green. 
 
 And mingled smoke and dust arose 
 
 In clouds above contending foes; 
 
 And scarce the shriek and groan have ceased, 
 
 That told of Battle s bloody feast! 
 
 Behold along yon river s side, 
 
 An army s tents are scattered wide ! 
 
 Far stretch they neath the vistaed oaks. 
 
 While upward curl their morning smokes. 
 
92 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 The silent drums, the guns at rest. 
 
 An hour of peaceful ease, attest. 
 
 In scattered groups the soldiers meet. 
 
 Their thrice-told dangers to repeat, 
 
 Or cheer some brooding heart with dreams. 
 
 Of home and its beloved themes: 
 
 Their sufferings o er, they soon shall turn 
 
 Where bright eyes for their welcome burn! 
 
 Above, the star-wreathed eagle floats. 
 But hark! that bugle s plaintive notes! 
 How sweet it swells along the grove! 
 How like the voice of mourning love! 
 Now sinks the strain: the muffled drum 
 Booms where a band of soldiers come. 
 The nodding plumes evince their rank: 
 Now wind they slowly towards the bank, 
 While borne in front, is seen a form 
 Once stateliest in the battle storm, 
 But prostrate now in stillest rest, 
 With martial cloak around his breast. 
 His brow is fair: but oh, how pale! 
 And on that cheek is death s dark seal. 
 That lip so young a sister kissed! 
 A mother how he will be missed! 
 
THE RED EAGLE 93 
 
 Fond hearts are beating far for him ! 
 
 Bright eyes alas ! his eyes are dim ! 
 
 Red lips are whispering his name, 
 
 And prophesying life and fame! 
 
 Alas! they little deem that he 
 
 No more their love-lit smiles shall see. 
 
 His mother, as she knelt last night, 
 
 To pray for him, her bosom s light, 
 
 But little thought that he was lying 
 
 A mangled corse among the dying! 
 
 But such is War: those martial men 
 
 Bore forth the brave young hero then. 
 
 They laid him in a rude red grave, 
 
 O er which the wild-flowers long will wave, 
 
 And gun and drum, combined by them, 
 
 Poured forth a soldier s requiem ! 
 
 Eyes, all unwont to weep, are dim, 
 
 They little heed, they weep for him ! 
 
 For him. whose death was glory-bright, 
 
 For him, who in their last fierce fight, 
 
 The post of danger sought, and gave 
 
 His life, a lesson for the brave ! 
 
 Sleep, brave, young warrior, unforgot! 
 
 A death like thine, man s proudest lot ! 
 
94 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 They do not die, who like thee die! 
 
 But gain an immortality ! 
 
 Ah, yes ! though death may quench the flame, 
 
 The torch is lit again by Fame! 
 
 Their names, like stars, outlive their time, 
 
 In scholar s scroll and minstrel s rhyme, 
 
 And ever shall remembered be, 
 
 Like thine, brave, young MONTGOMERY. (7) 
 
 III. 
 
 But, now the funeral rites are o er, 
 The soldiers seek their tents once more, 
 And, while they weep their comrades slain, 
 Brave hearts they ne er shall meet again, 
 Rejoice to know the strife is done 
 So bloodily and bravely won ! 
 Yes, by their courage and their strength 
 Muscogee s braves are quelled at length. 
 Six moons have rolled their silver tide, 
 And they are blasted in their pride; 
 The Autumn stars saw triumph s glow, 
 The Spring-time sun, the broken bow! 
 Their bones are white upon their hills, 
 Their blood has crimsoned all their rills: 
 
THEREDEAGLE 95 
 
 From Estanaula s tumbling wave, 
 
 To where Escambia s waters lave, 
 
 The fire and sword have swept their land, 
 
 Dealt with an unrelenting hand. 
 
 At Tallisee in vain they stood, 
 
 Or poured at Autosee their blood! 
 
 No skill or cunning could drive back. 
 
 The conqueror from his fiery track. 
 
 One final effort in despair, 
 
 As turns the panther in his lair, 
 
 Beside fair Tallapoosa s wave, 
 
 Within the "Horse-Shoe Bend," they made, 
 Yet found its refuge but a grave, 
 
 That scarce a warrior could evade ! 
 Oh, seldom, in the battle-field, 
 
 Have fiercer scenes or deadlier strife, 
 Than this been witnessed. None would yield, 
 
 But in the conflict sold his life. 
 True, other fields have more displayed 
 
 The pomp of war, the clashing din, 
 The gleaming ranks in steel arrayed, 
 
 The mortar, axe and culverin: 
 But here each warrior did his best; 
 
 Each grappled with his foeman grim, 
 
96 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 Nor shunned the death-bolt in his breast, 
 
 If he could only die with him! 
 Brave men! your names are all unknown, 
 
 But cowards, when compared with you, 
 Have gained the laurels of renown, 
 
 And live among earth s treasured few. 
 But he, your Conqueror, well deserves 
 
 The honors of unfading fame; 
 His is a soul that never swerves 
 
 From duty s high and holy claim. 
 In boyhood s morning time, he braved 
 
 A tyrant s minions in their wrath, 
 And proved our Land, though then enslaved, 
 
 Should tread in freedom s starry path. 
 And when the wail of woe was heard 
 
 Along the borders of the West, 
 He grasped his country s rusted sword, 
 
 And stood a shield before her breast. 
 Through all these scenes of strife and blood, 
 
 His arm has borne our banner on; 
 Though weak and wounded, he has stood 
 
 Aye, foremost till the field was won. 
 High is his fame: but greener leaves 
 
 Shall yet adorn his warrior brow; 
 
THE REDE A OLE 97 
 
 For in the future he achieves 
 
 A prouder fame than decks him now. 
 The veil of time lifts from my sight ! 
 
 And with a prophet s eye I see, 
 Shed ever on his brow, its light, 
 
 The golden star of Victory! 
 I see him, on the embattled field, 
 
 Beat back our ancient Foes, once more; 
 The Thunder bolts, I see him wield, 
 
 And hurl the Titans from the shore! 
 His country owns his high deserts, 
 
 And shout with joy his victor name, 
 Above all foes his Right asserts 
 
 The loved inheritor of Fame! 
 The stars are round him ! I behold, 
 
 Through crowding years, his fame go down, 
 And when his locks are white and old, 
 
 Upon his brow the Mural Crown! 
 He wears it nobly: still, as aye, 
 
 To freedom s faith, he proves him true ; 
 His country s Shield and Sword alway, 
 
 Her honor ever in his view ! 
 Oh, Chief and Statesman, may the years 
 
 Of traveling time ne er dim thy fame, 
 
98 THEREDEAGLE 
 
 But leave us, as it now appears, 
 
 In star-famed letters, JACKSON S name! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The strife is over, misery fraught! 
 The Retribution has been wrought ! 
 And now the Conqueror but delays 
 Beside his recent battle-place, 
 To meet the tribes who sue for peace, 
 And beg their bloody doom may cease- 
 Sullen and sad the vanquished come, 
 Their bronzed brows all dark with gloom. 
 The fire, that filled their eagle eyes, 
 Now quenched in tearless sorrow, dies. 
 Old warriors, grim, and tall, and gray, 
 With broken limbs, a sad array ! 
 Young braves, with wounds all bleeding yet, 
 Gashed by the sword and bayonet: 
 And women, too, a sadder sight! 
 Scarred with the tokens of the fight! 
 All come in deep despondence dumb, 
 Before the Mighty Captain come! 
 They lay their feeble weapons down, 
 Beneath his stern, unpitying frown, 
 
THE RED EAGLE 99 
 
 And yield their hostages that they 
 No more his word will disobey. 
 The only terms he sternly grants, 
 
 By which their homes and lives to shield, 
 Are that they seek their hidden haunts, 
 
 And force their hostile chiefs to yield. 
 "To each and all shall mercy be, 
 Who yield at once implicitly! 
 To each and all, save only one 
 Whose deeds a fiercer doom have won, 
 The Eagle Chief proud Weatherford 
 Whose name has been your rallying word; 
 Whose cry has filled each battle-field; 
 Whose life some demon seems to shield; 
 Whose rifle, at the Horse-Shoe Bend, 
 Struck down my bosom s dearest friend, 
 The brave Montgomery; whose hand 
 Brought all this ruin on your land; 
 For whom a thousand victims cry, 
 The Murderer of Fort Minims shall die!" 
 
 V. 
 
 Beside the Mighty Captain, stands 
 An old man, grasping in his hands 
 
100 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 His heavy rifle, down his cheek 
 
 War-worn and wrinkled, tear-drops break, 
 
 And through the crowd, his red eyes range, 
 
 Filled with the lightnings of revenge. 
 
 "Yes ! yes !" he mutters, "oft and long 
 
 I ve sought him in the battle throng: 
 
 His red plume, bathed in Lilla s gore, 
 
 Has ever waved mine eyes before, 
 
 The torch of vengeance ! but the fiends 
 
 Have saved him by their hellish means; 
 
 Yet now the snares are round him: soon 
 
 His corse shall rot beneath the moon! 
 
 Ha! ha! I see him in the darkness swing, 
 
 Fat feeding for the famished vulture s wing!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 Far from these scenes where dogwood trees 
 Waste their wild blossoms on the breeze, 
 Beside a spring that prattling pours 
 Its pebbly tide down verdant shores, 
 A warrior, with a maid, is seen. 
 Half-hidden through the leafy green. 
 She leans upon his manly breast; 
 His arm is round her gently pressed. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 101 
 
 How starry beam those upward eyes! 
 That brow the white moon of the skies ! 
 The small foot, mid those violets prest, 
 In strange and beaded beauty drest ! 
 Her eyes, like flowers, are filled with dew, 
 But sunbeam smiles are glimmering through. 
 She speaks, "Oh, yes ! my father lives, 
 His daughter every grief forgives; 
 Oh, yes ! I heard his voice last night 
 Ring down the glen, above the fight, 
 I saw his form, his well-known dress, 
 
 His waving locks, so old and gray, 
 And would have rushed to his embrace, 
 
 But in the darkness swooned away!" 
 
 Silent the chief meets her caress ; 
 
 A melancholy tenderness 
 
 About his eyes and mouth, the while, 
 
 Sheds sadness o er his very smile; 
 
 His thoughts seem wandering in a dream 
 
 A night of storm one starry beam ! 
 
 The maiden starts: "My heart is full 
 
 Of bubbling joy, but oh, I fear 
 A doom than all more terrible, 
 
 Is gathering round thy footsteps here. 
 
102 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 The warriors all have left thy path; 
 The White Man s devastating wrath 
 Pursues thee still; no mercy, no! 
 Will he the hunted Chieftain show. 
 Around us death, and Death! his cry: 
 Oh, Weatherford, where shall we fly? 
 But, come what may, the Eagle s mate 
 Will proudly share his fallen fate! 
 When clouds beset the sinking sun, 
 Still o er him hangs his crescent one; 
 And I, though death should fall on thee, 
 Will, warrior, with thee, ever be!" 
 
 "Lilla," the Chieftain rising, said, 
 
 "The storm is round me; o er my head 
 
 The bolt impends; but I will fling 
 
 The clouds below me, with my wing; 
 
 The hawk might seek the blast to shun, 
 
 The Eagle soars to meet the sun! 
 
 Linger thou here: the night s first breeze 
 
 Shall whisper Safety ! through the trees !" 
 
 One kiss ! the pressure of two throbbing hearts ,- 
 
 A sinking form! how wavelike! he departs. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 103 
 
 VII. 
 
 High noon within the bannered tent ! 
 The Conqueror s spirit still is bent 
 Upon his purpose. Round him press 
 His chosen councillors. Each dress 
 A chieftain shows, whose deeds of fame 
 Have shed a beauty round his name 
 A light that, like a star, will beam. 
 
 Lustrous, and large. a golden glory 
 Adown the future s gliding stream, 
 
 And gild our country s morning story ! 
 There COFFEE stands, whose stalwart form 
 Has nobly borne the battle-storm; 
 Whose plume has shone through every fight. 
 A guiding and a cheering light ! 
 And CARROLL there, around whose brow. 
 The scars are seamed like laurels now. 
 
 And at whose name, the Indian quails 
 By all his smoking hills and vales ! 
 And ARMSTRONG here, whose younger face 
 Still beams with glory s martial grace, 
 Whose words of cheer the battle won 
 "I fall, my men, but save the gun!" 
 
104 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 These round their valiant leader stand, 
 
 And share his councils. All regret 
 That, though their arms have swept the land, 
 
 Its bloody Chief escapes them yet! 
 "By heavens ! he wears a charmed life ! 
 
 Go, bid the spies, that, far and near, 
 They cease not from the baffled strife, 
 
 Till, dead, or captive, he is here!" 
 
 Scarce, from those lips of fiery scorn, 
 The fierce decree had sternly gone, 
 When suddenly, within the tent, 
 
 A warrior form, unarmed and tall, 
 With bright plumes o er his forehead bent, 
 And rich scarfs with gay wampum blent, 
 
 Around his limbs symmetrical, 
 Before the startled conquerors, stands, 
 Holding a broken bow within his hands. 
 
 A kingly figure, high and proud, 
 With nature s faultless grace endowed! 
 Fearless in port, as if he trod, v 
 
 Like Rob Roy, on his Highland sod! 
 His face is calm; no lines of fear 
 On brow, or lip, or cheek, appear; 
 
THE RED EAGLE 105 
 
 And in his eye, so falcon-framed, 
 
 The native fire is all untamed! 
 
 But still a calmness marks his mien, 
 
 A sadness in that eye is seen, 
 
 As in some fountain s limpid breast 
 
 You see the mirrored clouds at rest ! 
 
 Those lips, so proud, show, by their press, 
 
 The seal of inward wretchedness; 
 
 And, through that heaving breast, is viewed 
 
 A spirit crushed, but not subdued: 
 
 Yet ne er did nobler brow or form 
 
 Stern manhood awe, or timorous beauty charm ! 
 
 The startled group, in silent wonder gaze 
 One moment, on the intruder s manly face, 
 And then his name and purpose, bid him speak. 
 He answers : 
 
 "I am Weather ford. (8) I come to seek 
 Peace for myself and people." 
 
 At the word, 
 
 What passions in the Victor s breast are stirred! 
 "Hah! Is it so? Art thou the bloody Chief? 
 And does Fort Mimms s murderer ask relief? 
 I like not this ! I bade them bring thee, bound 
 To expiate by death, thy crimes renowned ! 
 
106 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 If so thou hadst appeared, I could decide 
 Full soon thy fitting fate, thou shouldst have died. 
 But thus to come ! tis strange ! and claiming peace !" 
 "I m in your power: do with me as you please/ 
 The Chief replies: "A soldier, I have fought 
 Your people long and bravely, as I ought; 
 They were my foes, and all the harm I could 
 I did them. With an army still, I would 
 Fight to the last. But all my braves are gone, 
 And I am left my nation s woes to mourn. 
 Once to the fight my warriors I could cheer. 
 But now, all dead, my voice they cannot hear. 
 Their bones are white upon To-hope-ka s hill. 
 By Talladega and Emucfau s rill, 
 At fatal Tallisee, and Coosa s shore. 
 Thy arms have crushed them : even hope is o er 1 
 Long as a chance remained, I kept the field, 
 Nor now, could I revive the dead, would yield. 
 Our Georgia foes we could have laughed to scorn. 
 But you have triumphed, and my people mourn . 
 Our fields are wasted, and our cattle dead, 
 Our women weep, our children cry for bread! 
 I mourn the sufferings of my native land, 
 And, for myself and people, peace demand. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 107 
 
 A brave man knows a brave man s heart ! and I 
 Upon your generosity rely!" 
 
 As thus the Chieftain spake in tones 
 
 The generous boson? ever owns, 
 
 And feels, before their simple sense. 
 
 The power of heart-born eloquence, - 
 
 The Victor s iron soul was stirred, 
 
 And melted by each glowing word. 
 
 In vain the abject voice of fear. 
 
 Trembling and faint, had pleaded there; 
 
 In vain the children of the wood 
 
 Had, for their Chieftain, kneeling sued; 
 
 Nor woman s voice, nor infant cry 
 
 Had changed that stern decree to die! 
 
 But here a hero proudly stands, 
 
 And from his conqueror life demands, 
 
 Though vanquished, proud, though helpless, brave. 
 
 A soul misfortune could not slave ! 
 
 Vile Tamerlane, with beastly threat. 
 
 Might gloat o er conquered Bajazet, 
 
 Or Edward doom a kneeling town 
 
 To perish in his fiery frown. 
 
 But here a spirit, else all steel, 
 
 Could own a kindred spirit s high appeal! 
 
108 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 "By Heavens!" he cries, "it shall be so! 
 
 Although I ve often sworn in wrath, 
 To hurl on thee our heaviest blow. 
 
 And doomed thee to a felon s death: 
 Yet souls like thine, we may forgive, 
 Go safely, Chieftain, thou shalt live!" 
 The Chieftain turns, but hark, a cry! 
 
 An angry form bursts in the tent, 
 "No! by my soul! the dog shall die, 
 
 And go the way his victims went! 
 My Lilla s blood cries from the ground! 
 For vengeance on the accursed hound! 
 Hold not my gun ! my General ! no ! 
 My ball shall lay the murderer low!" 
 
 "White Wolf," the Chieftain calmly said, 
 
 Beazely, thy daughter is not dead!" 
 
 And scarce the words the Chief had spoke, 
 
 To check the old man s maniac wrath, 
 When, through the tent, a light form broke, 
 
 The White Dove on the Eagle s path ! 
 With cry of joy, all unreprest, 
 And fainting, fell upon her father s breast! (9) 
 
NOTES 
 
NOTES 
 
 1. "Few weeks agone, vile murder gave 
 
 Our nobtest youths to Burnt Corn s wave." 
 
 The battle of Burnt Corn was the first open conflict in 
 this war, though preceded by many border massacres. It oc 
 curred in July, 1813, in what is now Conecuh County, Ala 
 bama, "where the old road to Pensacola crossed Burnt Corn 
 Creek." A party of three hundred and fifty hostile Indians, 
 headed by Peter McQueen, a wealthy half-breed, had received 
 a large supply of ammunition and merchandise from the 
 Spaniards, and, on their return home, were attacked by a 
 hastily collected force of three hundred men from the Tensaw 
 and Tombecbee settlements, under Col. James Callier. A 
 running fight of three hours ensued, in which the whites were 
 defeated and dispersed, with great loss upon both sides. The 
 Indians always assigned this "unprovoked attack" as the 
 cause of the massacre at Fort Mimms, and of the subsequent 
 
 2. "No manlier one than Weatherford." 
 
 The Hon. N. H. Claiborne, in his Notes on the War in 
 the South, written while feelings of animosity were still fresh 
 against our hero, gives the following glowing, though by no 
 means partial sketch of his character: "Fortune bestowed on 
 Weatherford, genius, eloquence, and courage. The first of 
 these qualities enabled him to conceive great designs; the 
 last to execute them; while eloquence, bold, impressive, and fig 
 urative, furnished him with a passport to the favor of his 
 
THE RED EAGLE 
 
 countrymen and followers. Silent and reserved, unless when 
 excited by some great occasion, and superior to the weak 
 ness of rendering himself cheap by the frequency of his ad 
 dresses, he delivered his opinions but seldom in council; but 
 when he did so, he was listened to with delight and appro 
 bation. His judgment and eloquence had secured the respect 
 of the old; his vices made him the idol of the young and un 
 principled. With avarice, treachery, and a thirst for blood, 
 he combines lust, gluttony, and a devotion to every species 
 of criminal carousal. ... In his person, he is tall, straight 
 and well-proportioned; his eye black, lively, penetrating, and 
 indicative of courage and enterprise; his nose prominent, 
 thin and elegant in its formation; while all the features of 
 his face, harmoniously arranged, speak an active and discip 
 lined mind. . . . Such were the opposite and sometimes dis 
 gusting traits of character of the celebrated Weatherford, 
 the key and corner-stone of the Creek Confederacy." 
 
 It may here be stated that our hero was a son of Charles 
 Weatherford, a Scotch peddler among the Indians, and of a 
 half-sister of the celebrated founder of the Creek Confeder 
 acy, General Alexander McGillivray. He was consequently a 
 half-breed. 
 
 3. "The hardy pioneers to guard 
 
 Who from the neighboring settlements." 
 
 The settlers upon the Tombecbee and Tensaw, at this 
 early period, were principally emigrants, who had left Georgia 
 and South Carolina, at the close of the Revolution. The 
 "savage wilderness," to the east of them, extended to the 
 Oconee, and westward, nearly to Natchez on the Mississippi; 
 while their only civilized communication was with the Span 
 iards at Mobile, who looked upon them as filibusteros and in 
 truders. At the first outbreak of hostilities, they took refuge 
 in Fort Stoddart, and other temporary fortifications, besides 
 Fort Mimms. This latter fort was the only one that fell a 
 victim to the assaults of the savages. 
 
 4. "Mine eyes this night have seen his mighty face: 
 
 This is a literal version of one of these hag-prophecies, 
 preserved by Col. Hawkins, the Indian Agent, and may be 
 found in the American State Papers. 
 
THE RED EAGLE 113 
 
 5. "Hear the story of three, whose memories long 
 Should live in the flower-crourned annals of song." 
 
 "The Canoe Fight," here commemorated, took place in 
 October, 1813, on the Alabama River, a short distance below 
 the present town of Claiborne. .It was fought, as narrated, 
 between nine Creek warriors in one canoe, and Samuel Dale, 
 Jeremiah Austill, and James Smith, three members of a 
 scouting company, which had just crossed the river, but could 
 render no assistance for want of a boat, to their companions, 
 who had been left, with a few others, as the rear-guard. The 
 desperate contest was witnessed from both banks. Its result 
 was mainly due to the Herculean powers of Dale, who was 
 known to the Indians, and dreaded, as Sam Thlucco, or Big 
 Sam, they having frequently felt his prowess. He survived 
 the war, as one of its most distinguished heroes; was fre 
 quently a member of the Alabama Legislature, and gave 
 name to Dale County, in that State. He died a few years 
 since, in Mississippi, as did James Smith, one of his compan 
 ions. The gallant Austill still survives, a most respected cit 
 izen of Mobile. 
 
 6. "Echanachaca! ne er to raptured sight." 
 
 The Holy Ground, here truthfully described in its pris 
 tine beauty, was located in what is now Lowndes County, on 
 the Alabama River, between Big Swamp and Pintlala Creeks. 
 The great battle was fought here with Weatherford, on the 
 23rd of January, 1814, by the Mississippi troops and some 
 volunteers from the Tombecbee and Tensaw settlements, and 
 a body of Choctaw warriors, led by Pushmataha all under 
 command of General Claiborne. The account of the escape 
 of Weatherford, by leaping his horse from a bluff into the 
 river, is strictly true. The bluff in question is situated a few 
 miles above the village of Benton. 
 
 7. "And ever shall remembered be, 
 
 Like thine brave, young Montgomery." 
 
 Major Lemuel P. Montgomery, the bosom friend of Gen 
 eral Jackson, a lawyer of high promise, and a gallant volun 
 teer officer, fell leading the attacking column, on the breast 
 work, at the battle of the Horse Shoe. His name is proudly 
 commemorated in the present seat of government of Ala 
 bama. 
 
114 THE RED EAGLE 
 
 8. "He answers, I am Weather ford I " 
 
 The most reliable report of this speech is given in Eaton s 
 Life of Jackson. It was taken down by an officer at the 
 time. It is, in my estimate, altogether the finest specimen of 
 Indian eloquence. 
 
 9. "And fainting, fell upon her father s breast." 
 
 The public life of Weatherford terminated with the war. 
 He retired to a reservation made him, upon Little River, the 
 boundary of Monroe and Baldwin counties, not far from the 
 site of Fort Mimms. Here, though surrounded by the whites, 
 he was never interrupted, but carried on a large plantation, 
 and raised many children, sonic of whom, with their descend 
 ants, still reside in those counties. Weatherford died in 
 1824, as will be seen from the following notice, in a Mobile 
 paper for that year: "William Weatherford, the celebrated 
 warrior, is at length vanquished the destroyer is conquered 
 the hand which so profusely dealt death and desolation 
 among the whites, is now paralyzed it is motionless. He 
 died at his late residence, near Montpelier, in this State, on 
 the 9th of March, inst. His deeds of war are well known to 
 the early settlers in South Alabama, and will be remembered 
 by them while they live, and be talked of with horror by gen 
 erations yet unborn. But his dauntless spirit has taken its 
 flight; he is gone to the land of his fathers." 
 
 THE END. 
 

 
 
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