Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Unbought Seminole
THE UNBOUGHT SEMINOLE
After the defection of many of the Seminole chiefs in 1857, Arpeik was approached by the United States Commissioners, and tendered money and lands if he would cease hostilities and consent to deportation. Though not less than one hundred and fourteen years old, blind and decrepit, his intellect survived the wreck of the body and his soul retained its ancient heat. His reply was worthy of any age: “Wagon loads of gold shall never buy me!” A few months afterward, he died and was buried among the Thousand Islands in a remote corner of the land which gave him birth, which he had fought to possess and which he never relinguished utterly.
An old, old man, in thicker shades
Than brood upon the brows of Night,
Hath lit the ghastly Everglades
With an imperishable light;
A light more brilliant in its flame
From the dusk soul from whence it came,
Amid the war-cloud’s clashing fame—
It burns! it blazes! let it be
A globe-mark for the bold and free
To beacon on Eternity.
Ay, let it flash its halo high—
Flash like a meteor in the sky
With lightning flame
To carve a name
That cannot, will not quickly die!
No subtle tribute of the mine
Could quell that hero-heart of thine;
Not the ripe wilderness of gold
Through which Pactolian tides have roll’d;
Not the star-gem that grandly flings
Its flambeau by barbaric kings;
No traitor’s breath, no hostile band,
Not Power’s all-pervading hand
Could wrench thee from thy native land.
The lone wolf from his lair
May find a shelter from despair—
Man of the weary-foot, for thee
No refuge held the land or sea—
Death, death alone could set thee free—
And, more than free, since thus it came
Girt with the glory-wings of fame.
O, wildwood Spartan of thy time!
O more than Roman in thy crime,
Love for thine own beloved clime.
Dear God! what segment of the earth
Can match the region of our birth!
Though ice-beleagured, rill on rill,
Though scorched to deserts, hill on hill—
It is our native country still.
Our native country, what a sound
To make heart, brain, and blood rebound!
Our native country! bannered far
On eagle wings, with cross and star;
Diviner than the hymns of glee
That flood Astarte-eyed Chaldee,
It frets the war flag on the deep,
It makes the bale-fire on the steep,
It stirs a thought that cannot sleep.
It arsenals the fleetest arm
With the keen weapons of alarm,
And sends them shimmering forth amain
To smite and smite and smite again.
It boomed a grand, cathedral bell
Along the crags to Bruce and Tell;
It rang like cymbals on the breeze
To Henry and Demosthenes;
It pealed, like trumpets in the fray
That canonized Thermopylae;
It wailed o’er Warren, sad and shrill,
In the hot crash of Bunker Hill;
It wept wild music o’er the dart
That burst from Osceola’s heart,
And still fares forth, a choral wave
Upon the never-dying brave.
Such, such the heavenly-gardened seed
That flowers each immortal deed.
Such, such the spirit of the past
That nobly battles to the last,
And such the sunbeam of thy soul,
Grim Brutus of the Seminole!
And I—though pale-faced and thy foe,
Can laud thy joy and feel thy woe;
Would that a Homer’s magic lyre,
His Sybil lip, his tongue of fire,
Were mine but one great moment—then,
Statued with monumental men,
Thy ghostly form, rapt in renown,
Should stand with helmet, sword, and crown—
And who would dare to drag it down?
*********
From the throned summit of the Thousand Islands
Meek virgins of the sea;
Along their diadem of emerald highlands,
The death-song sobs for thee.
The gay magnolia musky-haired and tender,
Queen-dryad of the scene,
Snares, in its veil of flower-floating splendor,
Winged linguist of the green.
The bright-plumed cedar trails its daintiest pillow
For nectar-laden bees;
Kneels, by the lake, the tress-disheveled willow,
Lone Magdalen of trees!
The knightly oak, a bulwark swart and brawny,
Stands by its page the vine;
Or hangs its large, storm-gullied, cleft, and tawny,
Upon its spear, the pine.
A dreamy fleck of violet creations
Stare at the anchored clouds,
Or shrink to see the spectral cypress nations
Rise glittering through their shrouds.
Beneath the turban of a tall palmetto,
Thy scattered warriors kneel,
Grim pilgrims at their gallant heart’s Loretto,
With votive bead and steel.
Upon their hearts, broad bucklers of alliance,
The scars are greenly dim’d—
Dread gaps, dread syllables of fierce defiance
Upon the tiger-limbed.
Apart from all, of all the goodliest number
Are widowed ones, alas!
In vain, in vain ye watch for those who slumber
In lagoon and morass.
A giant mound, with untold ages hoary
Outspiraling the strand,
Bears thee, great chieftain, like a steed of glory,,
Upon the spirit-land.
From the grey summit of Time’s stateliest mountain,
Age, throned amid the rocks,
Had shot the avalanche of a thousand fountains
In silver down thy locks.
But now, but now, thy earthliness departed,
De Leon’s fount is won;
And all the dead who left thee, broken hearted,
Outgleam the primal sun.
There Micanopy, with his plumes vermilion,
Stalks by the glittering ring,
There Tustenuggee, ’neath a rich pavilion,
Ay “every inch a King!”
There Osceola, warlike, wise and sparing,
Outsoars the belting wave,
There Coacbochee, warlike, wild and daring,
From his bleak western grave.
There, the Great Spirit, in his car of thunder,
Salutes thee with a smile,
“Live on, my son!” The clouds are rent asunder
About the funeral pile.
Dark Withlacoochee caught the magic meaning,
Triumphant with St. John,
And bore it on, with every ripple gleaming,
“Live on! Live on! Live on!”
The comeliest damsels of thy shadowy nation
Shall sing to thee: “Live on!”
Shout echo, million-tongued o’er the nation,
“Live on! Live on! Live on!”
The lyric gales, in soft melodious motion,
Thrill the harp-pines: “Live on!”
While throbs the everlasting dirge of ocean:
“Live on! Live on! Live on!”