Rape of Florida: Canto I: Invocation

The poet hath a realm within, and throne,
And in his own soul singeth his lament.
A comer often in the world unknown --
A flaming minister to mortals sent;
In an apocalypse of sentiment
He shows in colors true the right or wrong,
And lights the soul of virtue with content;
Oh! could the world without him please us long?
What truth is there that lives and does not live in song?


"The stuff's in him of robust manliness,
He is a poet, singing more by ear
Than note." His great heart filled with tenderness,
Thus spoke the patriarch bard of Cedarmere
Of me, who dwelt in a most obscure sphere;
For I was in the tents of bondage when
The muse inspired, and ere my song grew clear,
The graceful Bryant called his fellow-men
To mark what in my lay seemed pleasing to him then.


O! shade of our departed Sire of song!
If what to us is dim be clear to thee,
Hear while my yet rude numbers flow along!
If spirit may a mortal's teacher be,
Stand thou near by and guidance offer me!
That, like thy verses, clear as summer blue, --
Bright mirrors of the peaceful and the free,
Reflecting e'er the good, the great and true, --
So mine may be, and I my pleasing task pursue.


Say, then, of that too soon forgotten race
That flourished once, but long has been obscure
In Florida, and where the seas embrace
The Spanish isles; say if e'er lives more pure
Warmed veins, or patriots could more endure
Around the altars of their native bourne!
Say, when their flow'ry landscapes could allure,
What peaceful seasons did to them return,
And how requited labor filled his golden urn!


How sweet their little fields of golden corn!
How pleasure smiled o'er all the varying scene!
How, 'mid her dewy murmurs dreamt the morn,
As Summer lingered in the deep serene!
How nibbling flocks spread on the hillsides green,
And cattle herded in the vales below;
And how wild meadows stretched in bloom-sweet sheen,
Beneath unconquered shades, where lovers go
When comes the evening star above the dark to glow!


In this delightful valley of the isle,
Where dwelt the proud Maroon, were not deeds done
Which roused the Seminole and fierce exile
To more than savage daring? Here begun
The valiant struggles of a forest son;
And tho' by wrong's leagued numbers overborne,
His deeds of love and valor for him won
The envied wreath by heroes only worn,
And which from manhood's brow oppression ne'er hath torn!


The negro slave by Swanee river sang;
Well-pleased he listened to his echoes ringing;
For in his heart a secret comfort sprang,
When Nature seemed to join his mournful singing.
To mem'ry's cherished objects fondly clinging;
His bosom felt the sunset's patient glow,
And spirit whispers into weird life springing,
Allured to worlds he trusted yet to know,
And lightened for awhile life's burdens here below.


The drowsy dawn from many a low-built shed,
Beheld his kindred driven to their task;
Late evening saw them turn with weary tread
And painful faces back; and dost thou ask
How sang these bondmen? how their suff'rings mask?
Song is the soul of sympathy divine,
And hath an inner ray where hope may bask;
Song turns the poorest waters into wine,
Illumines exile hearts and makes their faces shine.


The negro slave by Swanee river sang,
There, soon, the human hunter rode along;
And eagerly behind him came a gang
Of hounds and men, -- the bondman hushed his song --
Around him came a silent, list'ning throng;
"Some runaway!" he muttered; said no more,
But sank from view the growing corn among;
And though deep pangs his wounded spirit bore,
He hushed his soul, and went on singing as before.


So fared the land where slaves were groaning yet --
Where beauty's eyes must feed the lusts of men!
'Tis as when horrid dreams we half forget,
Would then relate, and still relate again --
Ah! cold abhorrence hesitates my pen!
The heavens were sad, and hearts of men were faint;
Philanthropy implored and wept, but then
The wrong, unblushing, trampled on Restraint,
While feeble Law sat by and uttered no complaint.


"Fly and be free!" A whisper comes from heaven,
"Thy cries are heard!" the bondman's up and gone!
To grasp the dearest boon to mortals given,
He frantic flies, unaided and alone.
To him the red man's dwellings are unknown;
But he can crave the freedom of his race,
Can find his harvests in the desert sown,
And in the cypress forest's dark embrace
A pathway to his habitations safely trace.


The sable slave, from Georgia's utmost bounds,
Escapes for life into the Great Wahoo.
Here he has left afar the savage hounds
And human hunters that did late pursue;
There in the hommock darkly hid from view,
His wretched limbs are stretched awhile to rest,
Till some kind Seminole shall guide him thro'
To where by hound nor hunter more distrest,
He, in a flow'ry home, shall be the red man's guest.


If tilled profusion does not crown the view,
Nor wide-ranged farms begirt with fences spread;
The cultivated plot is well to do;
And where no slave his groaning life has led,
The songs of plenty fill the lowliest shed.
Who could wish more, when Nature, always green,
Brings forth fruit-bearing woods and fields of bread?
Wish more, where cheerful valleys bloom between,
And herds browse on the hills, where winter's ne'er has been?


Shall high-domed mosque or steepled cathedral,
Alone, to man his native land endear?
Shall pride's palatial pomp and ease withal,
The only shrines of patriotism rear?
Oh! who can limit adoration's sphere,
Or check the inspiring currents of the soul? --
Who hush the whispers of the vernal year,
Or press the sons of freedom from their goal?
Or who from Nature wrest the mystery of control!


Plebian, Savage, Sage, or lord or fiend,
Man hath of justice and of right a cause.
Prior to all that e'er has contravened,
Or e'en to man's existence, justice was.
Right would be right amid the wreck of laws:
'Tis so, and all ordaining Nature gives
Somewhere to live, to every child she has;
She gives, and to her bosom each receives,
Inducing it to love the spot whereon it lives.


Fair Florida! whose scenes could so enhance --
Could in the sweetness of the earth excel!
Wast thou the Seminole's inheritance?
Yea, it was thee he loved, and loved so well!
'Twas 'neath thy palms and pines he strove to dwell.
Not savage, but resentful to the knife,
For thee he sternly struggled -- sternly fell!
Thoughtful and brave, in long uneven strife,
He held the verge of manhood mid dark hights of life.


A wild-born pride endeared him to thy soil!
Where roamed his herds without a keeper's care --
Where man knew not the pangs of slavish toil!
And where thou didst not blooming pleasures spare,
But well allotted each an ample share,
He loved to dwell: Oh! isn't the goal of life
Where man has plenty and to man is fair?
When free from avarice's pinch and strife,
Is earth not like the Eden-home of man and wife?


If earth were freed from those who buy and sell,
It soon were free from most, or all its ills;
For that which makes it, most of all, a hell,
Is what the stingy of purse of Fortune fills:
The man who blesses and the man who kills,
Oft have a kindred purpose after all, --
A purpose that will ring in Mammon's tills;
And that has ne'er unheeded made a call,
Since Eve and Adam trod the thistles of their Fall.


What meant the actions of the great and good --
The Christ and His Apostles -- holy men!
Why wandered they about in solitude,
Despising what the world called greatness then?
Why shun the num'rous city's places, when
Eternal themes their warning tongues inspired --
Why, but to reach Edenic source again
In nature? Why, if not that they aspired
To tarry, till seraphic touch and flame had fired


Their hearts to work man's restoration? This,
This is the voice of Time unfolding truth!
Oh! does not Nature teach us primal bliss?
Who has not felt her lessons in his youth?
And having felt, who can forget forsooth!
The voice of birds, the toil and hum of bees,
And air all filled with sounds, sweet or uncouth,
Dark hights, majestic woods and rolling seas
Have been my teachers, and my teachers still be these!


Have I not seen the hills of Candahar
Clothed in the fury of a thunder storm,
When Majesty rolled in His cloud-dark car --
Wreathed His dread brow with lightning's livid form,
And with a deluge robed His threat'ning arm!
Not seen, when night fled His terrific feet,
The great deep rose to utter forth alarm,
The hills in dreadful hurry rushed to meet,
And rocking mountains started from their darkened seat!


In happy childhood I have even loved
To sport the wild, and in the front and face
Of dreadest Nature, watch the storm unmoved,
That tore the oak tree from its ancient place
And took the hilltops in its dark embrace;
And then I've loved the pleasing after-view --
The quiet valleys spanned with light and grace --
The watery field, replete with life anew,
And sunset robing earth in love's sublimest hue.


Thus, when afar the wide Bahamas shone, --
In lucent stillness gleamed the sunset sea --
When day's last rim sank like a molten zone,
Emblaz'ning in Omnific heraldry
The far-off crag and latest mountain tree;
Thus, on a stand dividing worlds I've stood,
Till, touched by the dark wand of mystery,
I felt the brow of night, and earth imbued
With dread emotions of a great eternal Good


Upon the shells by Carribea's wave
I've heard the anthems of the mighty sea;
Heard there the dark pines that their voices gave,
And heard a stream denote its minstrelsy --
How sweet, all lonely, was it there to be!
The stars were bright, the moon was up and clear;
But, when I thought of those who once were free,
And came at wonted times to worship there;
The sea's deep voice grew sad and claimed of me a tear!


Oh! sing it in the light of freedom's morn,
Tho' tyrant wars have made the earth a grave;
The good, the great, and true, are, if so, born,
And so with slaves, chains do not make the slave!
If high-souled birth be what the mother gave, --
If manly birth, and manly to the core, --
Whate'er the test, the man will he behave!
Crush him to earth and crush him o'er and o'er,
A man he'll rise at last and meet you as before.


So with our young Atlassa, hero-born, --
Free as the air within his palmy shade,
The nobler traits that do the man adorn,
In him were native: Not the music made
In Tampa's forests or the everglade
Was fitter, than in this young Seminole
Was the proud spirit which did life pervade,
And glow and tremble in his ardent soul --
Which, lit his inmost-self, and spurned all mean control.


Than him none followed chase with nimbler feet,
None readier in the forest council rose;
To speak for war, e'er sober and discreet,
In battle stern, but kind to fallen foes.
He led the charge, but halted, -- slow to close
The vexed retreat: In front of battle he,
Handsome and wild his proud form would expose;
But in the cheering van of victory,
Gentle and brave he was the real chief to see.


Lo! mid a thousand warriors where he stands,
Pride of all hearts and idol of his race!
Look how the chieftains of his war-tried bands
Kindle their courage in his valiant face!
And as his lips in council open, trace
How deep suspense her earnest furrows makes
On ev'ry brow! How rings the forest-place
With sounding cheers! when native valor wakes
His dark intrepid eyes, and he their standard takes!


Proud spirit of the hommock-bounded home
Well wast thy valor like a buckler worn!
And when the light of other times shall come, --
When history's muse shall venture to adorn
The brow of all her children hero-born, --
When the bold truth to man alike assigns
The place he merits, of no honor shorn;
The wreath shall be, that thy brave front entwines,
As green as Mickasukie's everlasting pines!


Well bled thy warriors at their leader's side!
Well stood they the oppressor's wasting fire;
For years sweep on, and in their noiseless tide,
Bear down the mem'ries of the past! The dire
And gloomful works of tyrants shall expire,
Till naught survives, save truth's great victories;
Then shall the voyager on his way aspire
To ponder what vast wrecks of time he sees,
And on Fame's temple columns read their memories!


Not so with Osceola, thy dark mate;
The hidden terror of the hommock, he
Sat gloomily and nursed a bitter hate, --
The white man was his common enemy --
He rubbed the burning wounds of injury,
And plotted in his dreadful silent gloom;
As dangerous as a rock beneath the sea.
And when in fray he showed his fearless plume,
Revenge made sweet the blows that dealt the white man's doom.


The pent-up wrath that rankled in his breast,
O'er smould'ring embers shot a lurid glare,
And wrongs that time itself had not redrest,
In ghost-like silence stalked and glimmered there.
And from the wizzard caverns of despair,
Came voice and groan, reminding o'er and o'er
The outrage on his wife so young and fair;
And so, by heaven and earth and hell he swore
To treat in council with the white man never more.


Such were the chiefs who led their daring braves
In many a battle nobly lost or won,
And consecrated Mickasukie's graves
To that sweet province of the summer sun!
And still shall history forgetful run?
Shall legend too be mute? then Poesy,
Divinest chronicler of deeds well done,
From thy blest shrine and annals of the free,
Sing forth thy praise and man shall hear attentively


The poorest negro coming to their shore,
To them was brother -- their own flesh and blood, --
They sought his wretched manhood to restore, --
They found his hidings in the swampy wood,
And brought him forth -- in arms before him stood, --
The citizens of God and sovran earth, --
They shot straight forward looks with flame imbued,
Till in him manhood sprang, a noble birth,
And warrior-armed he rose to all that manhood's worth.


On the dark front of battle often seen,
Or holding dang'rous posts through dreadful hours, --
In ranks obedient, in command serene,
His comrades learn to note the tested powers
Which prove that valor is not always ours,
Be whomsoever we: A common race
Soon from this union flows -- soon rarest flowers
Bloom out and smile in beauty's blending grace,
And rivals they become for love's sublimest place.


The native warrior leads his ebon maid,
The dark young brave his bloom-hued lover wins;
And where soft spruce and willows mingle shade,
Young life mid sunniest hours its course begins:
All Nature pours its never-ending dins
In groves of rare-hued leaf without'n end, --
'Tis as if Time, forgetting Eden's sins,
Relents, and spirit visitors descend
In love's remembered tokens, earth once more to blend.


The sleepy mosses wave within the sun,
And on the dark elms climbs the mistletoe;
Great tangled vines through pendant branches run,
And hang their purple clusters far below;
The old pines wave their summits to and fro,
And dancing to the earth, impatient light
Touches the languid scene, to quickly go,
Like some gay spirit in its sunny plight,
That, visiting the earth, did glance and take its flight.


Here lapped in Sylvia's all-composing shade,
Reposed a lake beneath the thick-wood hill
Whose shady base, by night and day was made
The scene of trystings: Pining there until
The shadow crept upon the midnight sill,
The love-sick youth spoke vows unto the moon;
And pond'ring by the waters lone and still,
The old man conned his lifetime's Afternoon,
And turned the pleasing view, "I shall be going soon."


"Come now, my love, the moon is on the lake;
Upon the waters is my light canoe;
Come with me, love, and gladsome oars shall make
A music on the parting wave for you, --
Come o'er the waters deep and dark and blue;
Come where the lilies in the marge have sprung,
Come with me, love, for Oh, my love is true!"
This is the song that on the lake was sung,
The boatman sang it over when his heart was young.


The boatman's song is hushed; the night is still,
Still as the vault of heaven, -- a plashy oar
Starts from the shadows by the darkling hill,
And softly dips towards the farther shore;
Now stops, now dips again -- is heard no more.
But follow the nook by yonder tree, --
Where spouts a tiny stream with fretish roar,
His light canoe is riding noiselessly --
A Chieftain's light canoe, in which his maid you see.


Ah! how her wild dark wealth of tresses spread
Below the arm that round her partly lies!
And as she leans her half reluctant head,
See how intense the glances that she tries!
Her very soul is mounting to her eyes
Lit with the fires of her proud ancestry;
And as her chieftain hears her faint replies,
How his high spirit doth adore to see
His princess-child, the bright star of his destiny!


"A maid from islands in a far, far sea,
Came to our shores, upon a day, a day;
A beauty fair, a beauty fair was she,
And took our young Chief's heart away, away;
Tho' all the world could not we heard him say.
And oh! we love our chieftain and his maid,
And so will we, and so will we for aye!"
This was the night-song on the lake delayed, --
The boatman sang it over in the willows' shade.


The scout at eve to Mickasukie came;
The stories of Twasinta were his boast, --
A stately chief, Palmecho was his name,
Had numerous herds and fields, and had a host
Of servants in the vale from Tampa's coast.
A proud descendant of a House of Spain,
Distinguished as a patron, gen'rous most,
Whoever sought his roof, sought not in vain,
And he who tarried once, must shelter there again.


What if his child, of Maroon mother born,
Were not so white as fancy's marble art?
What if Care's tedious skill did not adorn? --
A native air did nobler charms impart;
For beauty blossomed wildly in her heart:
The rosebud's youngest tinge was in her cheek,
And her dark restless eyes could dance and start
As if the sparkling sense were wont to speak,
And hurl the insult back that woman's heart is weak.


Lo! where yon age-browned mansion meets the eyes!
The brook below it winds how placidly!
A house of proud ancestral families,
How venerable is its history!
Whilom here met the sons of liberty;
The counsel and the courage of a time
When civilization, crossing o'er the sea,
Courted the perils of an unknown clime,
And reared the Cross of Spain to mark conquests sublime.


But of thy conquests, what remains for thee,
Except our sighs, thou proud but feeble Spain!
Thy flow'r and pride, Lisboa's chivalry,
Could not on these wild shores prolong thy reign.
For man waxed mighty and his God was Gain.
What if thy ancient mounts are castle-crowned?
What if thy vales do open to the main,
With cloisters in the distance time-embrowned?
These are but glimmerings of what was once renowned.


Was not thy standard on these shores unfurled? --
Dominions named for thy "most Christian Queen"
The smile-provoking jest of a New World,
Whose sons in battle had victorious been,
O'er English vet'rans, who had service seen?
Yea, when the luchre-loving Saxon grew
And fattened on the blood of slaves, I ween
Not much remained for errant hands to do,
Except to seize and hold the weak in bondage too!


But Saragossa's flash o'er war's red field,
That nerved thy sons in havoc's revelry,
Held in young Ewald's softer glance concealed,
The dark springs of Astrusian chivalry, --
The lash-hid fires of valor's destiny --
Such eyes, the raging battle could not tame:
Yet they could shed the sweet light of a plea;
Enkindling in love's soft consenting flame,
A pride that nobly linked with beauty's charming name.


But we return; By Carribea's shore
And Tampa far, the Maroon's race is run!
Gone are his children; him they call no more!
No more they gather in the setting sun
To join their pastimes, after toil is done!
Pathetic silence covers with a pall
The scene which all the living seem to shun,
And something seems to whisper, after all:
"And, ah! did such and such Twasinta's homes befall!"


Here many an exile found his long sought rest,
And built his cot in woods afar, or lane.
Warm were his greetings for the weary guest,
Who wandered thither from the distant main.
And those who came were pressed to come again.
And for what news he gathered by the way,
Of frontier happens, or of maid and swain
On foreign shores, -- prolonged from day to day,
The total stranger might at will extend his stay.


Here erst came exiles from their little farms,
To greet Palmecho and some honored guest;
Then ranged in rows, they sat with folded arms,
And heaven with rude, but fervent songs addrest:
A nameless longing kindled in each breast,
Gave soul to song, and as their voices rose,
And rolled, and echoed, dying in the West,
It seemed as if the dark hills did enclose
Unearthly choirs that chanted Nature to repose.


But where are they? Their voices are no more,
Where is the proud Palmecho? Where his child?
Ah! shall we seek them on a foreign shore,
Or follow where they wander in the wild?
Oh God! and hath our garments been defiled
With their shed blood; or what the frost and blight
That withered life where erst so sweet it smiled?
Let time's unerring finger point aright,
If Babylon be doomed, the truth should see the light.


Pass by their dwellings! they are desolate!
The dog has wandered there and howled and gone!
Rank weeds are growing over the broken gate,
And silence holds her dismal reign alone.
Ah! see what devastation there has done!
How o'er the scene a mournful spirit falls!
Here where a cheerful hearth whilom hast shone,
The dim mole burrows -- sunken lean the walls,
And wizard voices whisper in the naked halls!


Thus have we, Mickasukie, seen thy brave,
And, too, Twasinta, seen thy homes decline!
Thus have we found how yearns the poorest slave
For freedom -- how at patriotism's shrine,
The ardor of the exile is divine;
And now, that in the tide of years o'erflown,
There's scarcely left a trace of thee and thine,
We pause and sigh, mid wrecks that time hath strewn;
Of all the world has been how little now is known!


The plowman's furrow marks the crumbling field,
Where all unnoticed, war's rude weapons spread;
While neath his heedless step may lie concealed,
The strange and thrilling annals of the dead!
On some eventful day there may have bled,
Freemen as brave as Balaklava knew;
While there may rest some glorious leader's head,
Whose matchless valor to his standard drew
Brave hosts, who round their homes a wall of battle threw.


Oh! would the muse of history rend the veil,
And bring her hidden instances to light;
How many standards of the proud would trail,
As thousands all unknown would rush in sight!
From steepled vale and celebrated hight!
Wherever civilization spreads her name,
Nations that perished in the scourge and blight
Of wars would rise, and in the book of fame,
Record their struggles and their heroes' deeds proclaim.


Not Albion's will nor Scotia's price alone,
Could drum and slogan till the air should shriek
With martial praise, -- nor with their lips of stone,
Could Tyber's Mistress and Illyrium speak
The godlike deeds of Roman and of Greek;
Nay, where the orange blows in yellow gold, --
Where eve is thoughtful and the morn is meek, --
Where stood the quick-eyed warrior dark and bold,
Applausing earth would hear the deeds of glory told.


Then from the lips of unforgetting time,
To hear what did Twasinta's homes befall
When war-storms overspread that peaceful clime --
To know what anguish did all hearts appall,
When separations brought death after all --
To hear how love can mortal dread unmask, --
To hear, and write at candor's earnest call,
That I may answer if mankind shall ask,
In truth -- this be my aim, this be my further task.