Few suns set on that dismal scene, My wounds were still unsear’d and green, When thundering on with trump and drum, I heard again the war-horse come, Like gathering tempest, big and black, That through the forest wings its track, Sweeping and tearing all that stand, And desolating wood and land. But I had oft seen danger near, And knew not that base feeling—fear! I roused my warriors from the rest That with short, fitful dreams they prest, And armed for fight, and strife and pain, Stood firm on Talladega’s plain. Oh Talladega! thou art still My native wood! my native hill! There knew I first my father’s voice, And felt my infant mind rejoice, And all those sweet endearments start, That nature winds about the heart, And home, and love, and bliss, and fame, That cluster round a parent’s name. And there I hoped to live and die, In nature’s sweet simplicity; Unmov’d with arts, or cares, or strife, That mingle in the white man’s life; Nor knew I whence th’ intruder came, Nor what his race, or what his fame; Nor car’d, nor wish’d, nor sought to be Else than I was—a Hillabee. And still I hoped, when nature threw Around my brows the silver hue, And fainting limbs proclaimed the close Of earthly cares and earthly woes, To lay me down with sober care, And slumber with my fathers there. Ah! land of all my heart holds dear, Thy groves are desolate and sear— The echoes of thy winding shore Shall charm my listening ear no more— The winds that whistle o’er thy plain Repeat a sad and hollow strain, And all thy haunts are fill’d with moans, And whitened by my nation’s bones.
But let me drop this strain of woe: I told thee of the coming foe, And he did come, in such array As well foretold a stubborn day. Few words I spoke to those who stood, With ready arms, within that wood; But, when I ceas’d, the battle cry Rung long and loudly—strike or die! Erst trampling horse, in armor bright, Pricked to the front and wooed the fight, With volley quick and furious tread Essayed th’ assault, and, wheeling, fled. I forward sprang, and at one yell A thousand warriors served me well, And urging ball and feather’d dart, Play’d hot and strong the warrior’s part; And once I drove the reeling ranks Back on their chief—the chief outflanks, Pours from behind his galling horse, And opes the war with all his force. Thick round my sides my bowmen lie— They faint, they waver, and they fly; Then streams afresh the battle gore Wider and wider along the shore, And those who fly but fly to feel Th’ avenging horsemen’s angry steel. And when the night closed on that plain, To veil the dying and the slain, Few, out of all my gallant band, Had ’scaped the mark of ball or brand; And death, of brave Muscogee men, Had numbered fourteen score and ten.