Читать книгу Poems of American History - Группа авторов - Страница 10
Оглавление"He chases shadows," sneered the British tars.
"As well fling nets to catch the golden stars
As climb the surges of earth's utmost sea."
But for the Venice pilot, meagre, wan,
His swarthy sons beside him, life began
With that slipt cable, when his dream rode free.
And Henry, on his battle-wrested throne,
The Councils done, would speak in musing tone
Of Cabot, not the cargo he might bring.
"Man's heart, though morsel scant for hungry crow,
Is greater than a world can fill, and so
Fair fall the shadow-seekers!" quoth the king.
Colonies were planted by the Spaniards in Cuba and Hispaniola, but the New World continued to be for them a land of wonder and mystery. They were quite ready to believe any marvel,—among others, that somewhere to the north lay an island named Bimini, on which was a fountain whose waters gave perpetual youth to all who bathed therein.
THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA
[1513]
Through darkening pines the cavaliers marched on their sunset way,
While crimson in the trade-winds rolled far Appalachee Bay,
Above the water-levels rose palmetto crowns like ghosts
Of kings primeval; them, behind, the shadowy pines in hosts.
"O cacique, brave and trusty guide,
Are we not near the spring,
The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The fount is fair,
Waukulla!
"But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
And never youth's departed days come back to age again;
The future in the spirit lies, the earthly life is brief,
'Tis you that say the fount hath life," so said the Indian chief. "Nay, Indian king; nay, Indian king, Thou knowest well the spring, And thou shalt die if thou dost fail our feet to it to bring." The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The spring is bright, Waukulla!"
Then said the guide, "O men of Spain, a wondrous fountain flows
From deep abodes of gods below, and health on men bestows.
Blue are its deeps and green its walls, and from its waters gleam
The water-stars, and from it runs the pure Waukulla's stream.
But men of Spain, but men of Spain,
'Tis you who say that spring Eternal youth and happiness to men again will bring." The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is clear, Waukulla!"
"March on, the land enchanted is; march on, ye men of Spain;
Who would not taste the bliss of youth and all its hopes again.
Enchanted is the land; behold! enchanted is the air;
The very heaven is domed with gold; there's beauty everywhere!"
So said De Leon. "Cavaliers,
We're marching to the spring,
The fountain of eternal youth that health to age will bring!"
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The fount is pure,
Waukulla!"
Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, the deep magnolia shades,
The clear Waukulla swift pursues its way through floral glades;
Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, beneath night's falling shade,
Beneath the low and dusky moon still marched the cavalcade.
"The river widens," said the men;
"Are we not near the spring,
The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?"
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The spring is near,
Waukulla!"
"The fount is fair and bright and clear, and pure its waters run;
Waukulla, lovely in the moon and beauteous in the sun.
But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
And never youth's departed days come back to man again.
O men of Spain! O men of Spain!
'Tis you that say the spring
Eternal youth and happiness to withered years will bring!"
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The fount is deep,
Waukulla!"
The river to a grotto led, as to a god's abode;
There lay the fountain bright with stars; stars in its waters flowed;
The mighty live-oaks round it rose, in ancient mosses clad;
De Leon's heart beat high for joy; the cavaliers were glad,
"O men of Spain! O men of Spain!
This surely is the spring,
The fountain fair that health and joy to faces old doth bring!"
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The spring is old,
Waukulla!"
"Avalla, O my trusty friend that we this day should see!
Strip off thy doublet and descend the glowing fount with me!"
"The saints! I will," Avalla said. "Already young I feel,
And younger than my sons shall I return to old Castile."
Then plunged De Leon in the spring
And then Avalla old,
Then slowly rose each wrinkled face above the waters cold.
The cacique sighed,
And Indian guide,
"The fount is false,
Waukulla!"
O vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain,
And never youth's departed days come back to man again;
The crowns Castilian could not bring the withered stalk a leaf,
But came a sabre flash that morn, and fell the Indian chief.
Another sabre flash, and then The guide beside him lay, And red the clear Waukulla ran toward Appalachee Bay. Then from the dead The Spaniards fled, And cursed the spring, Waukulla.
"Like comrades life was left behind, the years shall o'er me roll,
For all the hopes that man can find lies hidden in the soul.
Ye white sails lift, and drift again across the southern main;
There wait for me, there wait us all, the hollow tombs of Spain!"
Beneath the liquid stars the sails
Arose and went their way,
And bore the gray-haired cavaliers from Appalachee Bay.
The young chief slept,
The maiden wept,
Beside the bright
Waukulla.
Hezekiah Butterworth.
In 1512 Juan Ponce de Leon received a grant to discover and settle this fabulous island. He sailed from Porto Rico in search of it in March, 1513, and found an island but no fountain. Pushing on, he discovered the mainland March 27, and, on April 2, landed and took possession of the country for the King of Spain, calling it Florida.
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON
[1513]
I
A story of Ponce de Leon,
A voyager, withered and old,
Who came to the sunny Antilles,
In quest of a country of gold.
He was wafted past islands of spices,
As bright as the Emerald seas,
Where all the forests seem singing,
So thick were the birds on the trees;
The sea was as clear as the azure,
And so deep and so pure was the sky
That the jasper-walled city seemed shining
Just out of the reach of the eye.
By day his light canvas he shifted,
And rounded strange harbors and bars;
By night, on the full tides he drifted,
'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars.
Near the glimmering gates of the sunset,
In the twilight empurpled and dim,
The sailors uplifted their voices,
And sang to the Virgin a hymn.
"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,
At the close of the rounded refrain;
"Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses
The ocean-swept banner of Spain!
The shadowy world is behind us,
The shining Cèpango, before; Each morning the sun rises brighter On ocean, and island, and shore. And still shall our spirits grow lighter, As prospects more glowing enfold; Then on, merry men! to Cèpango, To the west, and the regions of gold!"
II
There came to De Leon, the sailor,
Some Indian sages, who told
Of a region so bright that the waters
Were sprinkled with islands of gold.
And they added: "The leafy Bimini,
A fair land of grottos and bowers,
Is there; and a wonderful fountain
Upsprings from its gardens of flowers.
That fountain gives life to the dying,
And youth to the aged restores;
They flourish in beauty eternal,
Who set but their foot on its shores!"
Then answered De Leon, the sailor:
"I am withered, and wrinkled, and old;
I would rather discover that fountain
Than a country of diamonds and gold."
III
Away sailed De Leon, the sailor;
Away with a wonderful glee,
Till the birds were more rare in the azure,
The dolphins more rare in the sea.
Away from the shady Bahamas,
Over waters no sailor had seen,
Till again on his wondering vision,
Rose clustering islands of green.
Still onward he sped till the breezes
Were laden with odors, and lo!
A country embedded with flowers,
A country with rivers aglow!
More bright than the sunny Antilles,
More fair than the shady Azores.
"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor As feasted his eye on the shores, "We have come to a region, my brothers, More lovely than earth, of a truth; And here is the life-giving fountain,— The beautiful Fountain of Youth."
IV
Then landed De Leon, the sailor,
Unfurled his old banner, and sung;
But he felt very wrinkled and withered,
All around was so fresh and so young.
The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming,
Their blossoms e'en margined the seas;
O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers
Hung deep from the branches of trees.
"Praise the Lord!" sung De Leon, the sailor;
His heart was with rapture aflame;
And he said: "Be the name of this region
By Florida given to fame.
'Tis a fair, a delectable country.
More lovely than earth, of a truth;
I soon shall partake of the fountain,—
The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"
V
But wandered De Leon, the sailor,
In search of that fountain in vain;
No waters were there to restore him
To freshness and beauty again.
And his anchor he lifted, and murmured,
As the tears gathered fast in his eye,
"I must leave this fair land of the flowers,
Go back o'er the ocean, and die."
Then back by the dreary Tortugas,
And back by the shady Azores,
He was borne on the storm-smitten waters
To the calm of his own native shores.
And that he grew older and older,
His footsteps enfeebled gave proof,
Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain,
The beautiful Fountain of Youth.
* * * * *
VI
One day the old sailor lay dying
On the shores of a tropical isle,
And his heart was enkindled with rapture,
And his face lighted up with a smile.
He thought of the sunny Antilles,
He thought of the shady Azores,
He thought of the dreamy Bahamas,
He thought of fair Florida's shores.
And, when in his mind he passed over
His wonderful travels of old,
He thought of the heavenly country,
Of the city of jasper and gold.
"Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,
"Thank the Lord for the light of the truth,
I now am approaching the fountain,
The beautiful Fountain of Youth."
VII
The cabin was silent: at twilight
They heard the birds singing a psalm,
And the wind of the ocean low sighing
Through groves of the orange and palm.
The sailor still lay on his pallet,
'Neath the low-hanging vines of the roof;
His soul had gone forth to discover
The beautiful Fountain of Youth.
Hezekiah Butterworth.
In March, 1521, De Leon led a large party to Florida and attempted to plant a colony there, but they were driven away by the Indians. De Leon himself was wounded in the thigh by an arrow. The wound was unskillfully treated, and the old adventurer died of it in Cuba shortly afterwards.
PONCE DE LEON
[1521]
You that crossed the ocean old,
Not from greed of Inca's gold,
But to search by vale and mount,
Wood and rock, the wizard fount
Where Time's harm is well undone,—
Here's to Ponce de Leon,
And your liegemen every one!
Surely, still beneath the sun,
In some region further west,
You live on and have your rest,
While the world goes spinning round,
And the sky hears the resound
Of a thousand shrill new fames,
Which your jovial silence shames!
Strength and joy your days endow,
Youth's eyes glow beneath your brow;
Wars and vigils are forgot,
And the Scytheman threats you not.
Tell us, of your knightly grace,
Tell us, left you not some trace
Leading to that wellspring true
Where old souls their age renew?
Edith M. Thomas.
The Spaniards, meanwhile, had pushed on across the Caribbean Sea and founded Darien, whither, in 1510, came one Vasco Nuñez Balboa. He made numerous explorations, and, learning from the Indians that there was a great sea to the south, determined to search for it. He started from Darien September 1, 1513, and on the 25th reached the top of a mountain from which he first saw the Pacific. He gained the shore four days later, and, wading into the water, took possession of it for the King of Spain.
BALBOA
[September 25, 1513]
With restless step of discontent,
Day after day he fretting went
Along the old accustomed ways
That led to easeful length of days.
But far beyond the fragrant shade
Of orange groves his glances strayed
To where the white horizon line
Caught from the sea its silvery shine.
He knew the taste of that salt spray,
He knew the wind that blew that way;
Ah, once again to mount and ride
Upon that pulsing ocean tide,—
To find new lands of virgin gold,
To wrest them from the savage hold,
To conquer with the sword and brain
Fresh fields and fair for royal Spain!
This was the dream of wild desire
That set his gallant heart on fire,
And stirred with feverish discontent
That soul for nobler issues meant.
Sometimes his children's laughter brought
A thrill that checked his restless thought;
Sometimes a voice more tender yet
Would soothe the fever and the fret.
Thus day by day, until one day
Came news that in the harbor lay
A ship bound outward to explore
The treasures of that western shore,
Which bold adventurers as yet
Had failed to conquer or forget;
"Yet where they failed, and failing died,
My will shall conquer!" Balboa cried.
But when on Darien's shore he stept,
And fast and far his vision swept,
He saw before him, white and still,
The Andes mocking at his will.
Then like a flint he set his face;
Let others falter from their place,
His hand and foot, his sturdy soul
Should seek and gain that distant goal!
With speech like this he fired the land,
And gathered to his bold command
A troop of twenty score or more,
To follow where he led before.
They followed him day after day
O'er burning lands where ambushed lay
The waiting savage in his lair,
And fever poisoned all the air.
But like a sweeping wind of flame
A conqueror through all he came;
The savage fell beneath his hand,
Or led him on to seek the land
That richer yet for golden gain
Stretched out beyond the mountain chain.
Steep after steep of rough ascent
They followed, followed, worn and spent,
Until at length they came to where
The last peak lifted near and fair;
Then Balboa turned and waved aside
His panting troops. "Rest here," he cried,
"And wait for me." And with a tread
Of trembling haste, he quickly sped
Along the trackless height, alone
To seek, to reach, his mountain throne.
Step after step he mounted swift;
The wind blew down a cloudy drift;
From some strange source he seemed to hear
The music of another sphere.
Step after step; the cloud-winds blew
Their blinding mists, then through and through
Sun-cleft, they broke, and all alone
He stood upon his mountain throne.
Before him spread no paltry lands,
To wrest with spoils from savage hands;
But, fresh and fair, an unknown world
Of mighty sea and shore unfurled
Its wondrous scroll beneath the skies.
Ah, what to this the flimsy prize
Of gold and lands for which he came
With hot ambition's sordid aim!
Silent he stood with streaming eyes
In that first moment of surprise,
Then on the mountain-top he bent,
This conqueror of a continent,
In wordless ecstasy of prayer,—
Forgetting in that moment there,
With Nature's God brought face to face,
All vainer dreams of pomp and place.
Thus to the world a world was given.
Where lesser men had vainly striven,
And striving died,—this gallant soul,
Divinely guided, reached the goal.
Nora Perry.
In 1518 a great expedition, under Hernando Cortez, sailed from Cuba in search of a land of marvellous wealth which was said to exist somewhere north of Darien. The result was the discovery of Mexico, which the Spaniards subdued with indescribable cruelties.
WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO
[1519]
"Mater á Dios, preserve us
And give us the Mexican gold,
Viva España forever!"
Light-hearted, treacherous, bold,
With clashing of drums and of cymbals,
With clatter of hoofs and of arms,
Into the Tezcucan city,
Over the Tezcucan farms;
In through the hordes of Aztecs,
Past glitter of city and lake,
Brave for death or for conquest,
And the Mother of God's sweet sake.
Perchance from distant Granada,
Perchance from the Danube's far blue,
He had fought with Moor and Saracen,
Where the death hail of battle-fields flew.
Down through the smoke and the battle,
Trolling an old Moorish song,
Chanting an Ave or Pater,
To whiten the red of his wrong,
Dreaming of Seville, Toledo,
And dark, soft catholic eyes,
Light-hearted, reckless, and daring,
He rides under Mexican skies.
Child of valor and fortune,
Nurtured to ride and to strike,
Fearless in defeat or in conquest,
Of man and of devil alike;
Out through the clamor of battle,
Up through rivers of blood,
"Viva España forever!
God and the bold Brotherhood!
Strike for the memories left us,
Strike for the lives that we keep,
Strike for the present and future,
In the name of our comrades who sleep;
Strike! for Jesus' sweet Mother,
For the arms and the vows that we hold;
Strike for fortune and lover,
God, and the Mexican gold!"
* * * * *
At morning gay, careless in battle,
With love on his lips, in his eyes;
At even stretched pallid and silent,
Out under Mexican skies.
And far in some old Spanish city,
Two dark eyes wait patient and long
For a lover who sailed to the westward,
Trolling an old Moorish song.
W. W. Campbell.
Shortly afterwards, Pizarro completed the conquest of Peru. Heavily-laden treasure-ships were sent homeward across the Atlantic, and at last the Spanish lust of gold seemed in a fair way to be satisfied.
THE LUST OF GOLD
From "The West Indies"
Rapacious Spain
Follow'd her hero's triumphs o'er the main,
Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried,
Where Moor and Christian desperately died.
A rabid race, fanatically bold,
And steel'd to cruelty by lust of gold,
Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored,
The cross their standard, but their faith the sword;
Their steps were graves; o'er prostrate realms they trod;
They worshipp'd Mammon while they vow'd to God.
Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell
How Cortez conquer'd, Montezuma fell;
How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew
The sun's resplendent empire in Peru;
How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood, And raised his voice against a sea of blood, Whose chilling waves recoil'd while he foretold His country's ruin by avenging gold. —That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell, That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell, Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doom'd to shed Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head; For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away,— His gold and he were every nation's prey.
But themes like these would ask an angel-lyre,
Language of light and sentiment of fire;
Give me to sing, in melancholy strains,
Of Charib martyrdoms and Negro chains;
One race by tyrants rooted from the earth,
One doom'd to slavery by the taint of birth!
* * * * *
Dreadful as hurricanes, athwart the main
Rush'd the fell legions of invading Spain;
With fraud and force, with false and fatal breath
(Submission bondage, and resistance death),
They swept the isles. In vain the simple race
Kneel'd to the iron sceptre of their grace,
Or with weak arms their fiery vengeance braved;
They came, they saw, they conquer'd, they enslaved,
And they destroy'd;—the generous heart they broke,
They crush'd the timid neck beneath the yoke;
Where'er to battle march'd their fell array,
The sword of conquest plough'd resistless way;
Where'er from cruel toil they sought repose,
Around the fires of devastation rose.
The Indian, as he turn'd his head in flight,
Beheld his cottage flaming through the night,
And, midst the shrieks of murder on the wind,
Heard the mute bloodhound's death-step close behind.
The conflict o'er, the valiant in their graves,
The wretched remnant dwindled into slaves;
Condemn'd in pestilential cells to pine,
Delving for gold amidst the gloomy mine.
The sufferer, sick of life-protracting breath,
Inhaled with joy the fire-damp blast of death:
—Condemn'd to fell the mountain palm on high,
That cast its shadow from the evening sky,
Ere the tree trembled to his feeble stroke,
The woodman languish'd, and his heart-strings broke;
—Condemn'd in torrid noon, with palsied hand,
To urge the slow plough o'er the obdurate land,
The laborer, smitten by the sun's quick ray,
A corpse along the unfinish'd furrow lay.
O'erwhelm'd at length with ignominious toil,
Mingling their barren ashes with the soil,
Down to the dust the Charib people pass'd,
Like autumn foliage withering in the blast:
The whole race sunk beneath the oppressor's rod,
And left a blank among the works of God.
James Montgomery.
Although Pope Alexander VI had, in 1493, issued a bull dividing the New World between Spain and Portugal, neither France nor England paid any heed to it. One of France's most active corsairs was Giovanni da Verazzano. In 1524 he crossed the Atlantic, and, sighting the coast at Cape Fear, turned northward, discovered the Hudson, landed at Rhode Island, and kept on, perhaps, as far as Newfoundland.
VERAZZANO
AT RHODES AND RHODE ISLAND
[1524]
In the tides of the warm south wind it lay,
And its grapes turned wine in the fires of noon,
And its roses blossomed from May to May,
And their fragrance lingered from June to June.
There dwelt old heroes at Ilium famed,
There, bards reclusive, of olden odes;
And so fair were the fields of roses, they named
The bright sea-garden the Isle of Rhodes.
Fair temples graced each blossoming field,
And columned halls in gems arrayed;
Night shaded the sea with her jewelled shield,
And sweet the lyres of Orpheus played.
The Helios spanned the sea: its flame
Drew hither the ships of Pelion's pines,
And twice a thousand statues of fame
Stood mute in twice a thousand shrines.
And her mariners went, and her mariners came,
And sang on the seas the olden odes,
And at night they remembered the Helios' flame,
And at morn the sweet fields of the roses of Rhodes.
From the palm land's shade to the land of pines,
A Florentine crossed the Western Sea;
He sought new lands and golden mines,
And he sailed 'neath the flag of the Fleur-de-lis.
He saw at last in the sunset's gold,
A wonderful island so fair to view
That it seemed like the Island of Roses old
That his eyes in his wondering boyhood knew.
'Twas summer time, and the glad birds sung
In the hush of noon in the solitudes;
From the oak's broad arms the green vines hung;
Sweet odors blew from the resinous woods.
He rounded the shores of the summer sea,
And he said as his feet the white sands pressed,
And he planted the flag of the Fleur-de-lis:
"I have come to the Island of Rhodes in the West.
"While the mariners go, and the mariners come,
And sing on lone waters the olden odes
Of the Grecian seas and the ports of Rome,
They will ever think of the roses of Rhodes."
To the isle of the West he gave the name
Of the isle he had loved in the Grecian sea;
And the Florentine went away as he came,
'Neath the silver flag of the Fleur-de-lis.
O fair Rhode Island, thy guest was true,
He felt the spirit of beauteous things;
The sea-wet roses were faint and few,
But memory made them the gardens of kings.
The Florentine corsair sailed once more,
Out into the West o'er a rainy sea,
In search of another wonderful shore
For the crown of France and the Fleur-de-lis.
But returned no more the Florentine brave
To the courtly knights of fair Rochelle;
'Neath the lilies of France he found a grave,
And not 'neath the roses he loved so well.
But the lessons of beauty his fond heart bore
From the gardens of God were never lost;
And the fairest name of the Eastern shore
Bears the fairest isle of the Western coast.
Hezekiah Butterworth.
The Spaniards still dreamed of a great empire somewhere in Florida, and in 1528 Pánfilo de Narvaez set out with an expedition in search of it. Only four members of the party got back to Cuba alive, the others having been killed or captured by the Indians. Among those captured and enslaved was Juan Ortiz. He was rescued by De Soto nearly ten years later.
ORTIZ
[1528]
"Go bring the captive, he shall die,"
He said, with faltering breath;
"Him stretch upon a scaffold high,
And light the fire of death!"
The young Creeks danced the captive round,
And sang the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
They brought the fagots for the flame,
The braves and maids together,
When came the princess—sweet her name:
The Red Flamingo Feather.
Then danced the Creeks the scaffold round,
And sang the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
In shaded plumes of silver gray,
The young Creeks danced together,
But she danced not with them that day,
The Red Flamingo Feather.
Wild sped the feet the scaffold round,
Wild rose the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
They stretched the stranger from the sea,
Above the fagots lighted,—
Ortiz,—a courtly man was he,
With deeds heroic knighted.
And sped the feet the scaffold round,
And rose the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
The white smoke rose, the braves were gay,
The war drums beat together,
But sad in heart and face that day
Was Red Flamingo Feather.
They streaked with flames the dusky air,
They streaked the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
"Dance, dance, my girl, the torches gleam,
Dance, dance, the gray plumes gather,
Dance, dance, my girl, the war-hawks scream,
Dance, Red Flamingo Feather!"
More swiftly now the torches sped,
Amid the Dance of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
She knelt upon the green moss there,
And clasped her father's knees:
"My heart is weak, O father, spare
The wanderer from the seas!"
Like madness now swept on the dance,
And rose the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Ye wings of the warrior's plume!"
"Grand were the men who sailed away,
And he is young and brave;
'Tis small in heart the weak to slay,
'Tis great in heart to save."
He saw the torches sweep the air,
He heard the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
"My girl, I know thy heart would spare
The wanderer from the sea."
"The man is fair, and I am fair,
And thou art great," said she.
The dance of fire went on and on,
And on the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"
The dark chief felt his pride abate:
"I will the wanderer spare,
My Bird of Peace, since I am great,
And he, like thee, is fair!"
They dropped the torches, stopped the dance,
And died the Song of Doom,—
"Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky,
Away with the warrior's plume!"
Hezekiah Butterworth.
In 1538 Hernando de Soto was appointed governor of Cuba and Florida, with orders to explore and settle the latter country. He landed at Tampa Bay with nearly a thousand men and started into the interior. He was forced to fight his way across the country against the tribes of the Creek confederacy, and in October, 1540, had a desperate battle with them at a palisaded village called Maubila, at the mouth of the Alabama River.
THE FALL OF MAUBILA
[October 18, 1540]
