Chapter IV: Part II: Occoneechee (1)

OCCONEECHEE,

The Maid of the Mystic Lake,

by Robert Frank Jarrett.

I.

Far away beneath the shadows Of the towering Smoky range, In the Western North Carolina, Comes a story true, but strange; Of a maiden and her lover, Of the tribe of Cherokee, And she lived far up the mountain, Near the hills of Tennessee.

Far above the habitation Of the white man, and the plain, Lived the dark-eyed Indian maiden, Of the Junaluska strain; Junaluska, chief, her father, Occoneechee was his pride, In the lonely little wigwam, High upon the mountain side.

There the stream Oconaluftee Hides its source far from the eye, Of the white man in his rovings, Far upon the mountain high; And the forest land primeval, Roamed by doe and wandering bear, And the hissing, coiling serpent, Was no stranger to them there.

Catamount and mountain-boomer Sprang from cliff-side into trees, And the eagle, hawk and vulture Winged their course on every breeze. At the footfall of this maiden Sped the gobbler wild and free, From the maiden Occoneechee Flitted butterfly and bee.

Occoneechee, forest dweller, Lived amid the scene so wild; In the simple Indian manner Lived old Junaluska's child. Streams of purest limpid water Gushed forth o'er the rock below, And the trout and silver minnow Dwelt in water, cold as snow.

Occoneechee's Mother Qualla Passed away from earth to God, When this maiden was a baby And was covered by the sod. High upon the rugged mountain, Far above the haunts of men, With their burdens and their sorrows, And their load of care and sin.

Thus the maiden knew no mother, Knew no love as most maids know, Heard no song, as sung by mother, Softly, sweetly, plaintive, slow. When the twilight came at evening, And the wigwam fire was lit, And the bearskin robe was spread out Upon which they were to sit,

Junaluska wept his Qualla, Wept the lover who had flown, For she was the only lover That this chieftain's heart had known; And at night, there was no lover To sit by him on the rug, Made of skins of bear and woodchuck, In the wigwam, crude but snug.

And at times he'd stand at evening, When the sun was setting low, And would watch with adoration Shifting clouds and scenes below; And his soul would want to wander Where the clime of setting sun Would reveal his long lost Qualla, When his work of life was done.

And the tears would fill his eyelids, And emotion shake his frame, When he thought of her departed, Or some friend would speak her name. And he'd call on God the spirit, When he'd see the golden glow Of the radiant splendid sunset, Where he ever longed to go.

Then he'd think of Occoneechee, In her adolescent years, How she needed his protection There to drive away her fears. Then he'd cease his deep repining, And his wailing and his grief, For her future and her beauty Brought the chieftain's heart relief.

Though the life of Occoneechee Was one lonely strange career, And the solitude and silence Made the romance of it drear, While the wildness of the forest, With the animals that roam, And the birds in great profusion Cheered her little wigwam home,

Yet her spirit, like the eagle's, Longed to soar off and be free From the wilds of gorge and mountain, Stream and cliff and crag and tree. And one day there came a red man Wandering up the mountain side, From the vale Oconaluftee Which was every Indian's pride.

Tall and handsome, agile runner, And the keenness of his eye Did betray his quick perception To the casual passer-by. Hair hung down in long black tresses, Far below his shoulder-blade, And the brilliant painted feathers By the passing winds were swayed.

And the arrows in his quiver Tipped with variegated stone, And the tomahawk and war knife, All the weapons he had known; Yet he knew all of their uses, None could wield with greater skill Tomahawk or knife or arrow, Than this wandering Whippoorwill.

Occoneechee, sitting lonely, In a shady little nook, Near the opening, by the wigwam, And the babbling crystal brook; She was bathing feet and ankles, Arms and hands she did refresh, In the iridescent splendor Of the fountain cool and fresh.

Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior, Spied the maiden by the pool, 'Neath the spreading tree above her, By the limpid stream so cool; Then he ventured there to tarry, Watch and linger in the wild, Near the maiden and the fountain, Watch this forest-dwelling child.

Though a warrior, brave, undaunted By the fiercest, wildest foe, In the battle's hardest struggle, Chasing bear and buck and doe; For his life was used to hardships, Scaling mountains in the chase, Yet he ne'er was known to falter 'Mid the hottest of the race.

But he now was moved by caution To approach, with greatest care, The unknown maid, there before him, And the scene so rich and rare; And his brave heart almost failed him As he comes up to her side, And obeisance makes he to her, E'er the chieftain she espied.

Occoneechee sprang up quickly From the rock moss-covered seat, All abashed, but lithe and nimble Were her ankles and her feet. "O-I-see-you," were the greetings They exchanged spontaneously, As they moved off together. Occoneechee leads the way,

To the quiet little wigwam, Where old Junaluska dwells With the maiden Occoneechee, And for whom his heart up-wells. Spreading out the flowing doe-skin Flat upon the earthen floor, Occoneechee and the warrior Sat and talked the chases o'er.

Sat and talked of bear and venison, Sat and smoked the calumet. These the greetings of the warrior, When the maiden first he met. Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior, Tarried for a night and day, Tarried long within the wigwam, And was loath to go away,

For the maid and Junaluska To the warrior were so kind, That 'twere hard among the tribesmen Such a generous clan to find. But at dawn upon the morrow, Whippoorwill must wend his way From old Junaluska's wigwam, For too long had been his stay.

Kind affection, Junaluska Gave to parting Whippoorwill, As he sauntered from the wigwam, Wandering toward the rugged rill. Now the silence so unbroken Starts a tear-drop in each eye, And the gentle passing zephyr Gathered up the lover's sigh,

And the sighs were borne to heaven, Like as lovers' sighs ascend, As the good angelic zephyrs Bear the message, friend to friend. Now each heart was sore and lonely, Sad the parting lovers feel, Yet the hopes of love's devotion Deep into each life did steal.

And when Whippoorwill had left them, Good old Junaluska said To his daughter Occoneechee, "Would you like this brave to wed?" Occoneechee, timid maiden, Never thought of love before, For she ne'er had spread the doe-skin Wide upon the earthen floor,

For a warrior, brave as he was, One possessed of skill so rare, With his tomahawk and war knife, And such long black raven hair; And she knew not how to answer, Though she felt as lovers do, When they plight their deep devotion To each other to be true.

"Occoneechee! child of wild woods, I am growing old and gray, And I feel I soon must leave you, Though I grieve to go away. I can feel the hand of time, child, Pressing down upon my head, And I know it won't be long now Till I'm resting with the dead.

"I can hear your mother calling, Sweetly, gently, calling me, Beckoning from the golden sunset, And she calls also for thee. 'Twas just last night she stood beside me, While you lay there sound asleep, And she called me, 'Junaluska!' And her voice caused me to weep.

"And she said, 'Dear Junaluska, I have come to tell you where You will find me at the portals Of the Lord's house over there. I will be among the blessed, Be with angels up on high. Have no fears of Death's dark river, Be courageous till you die.'

"Then she stood and sang a message O'er you in your lonely bed, For a moment, then departed; And I called, but she had fled. Yet I daily hear her sweet voice, And I see her image there, As she calls us unto heaven, 'Mid the pleasures, O, so rare.

"And I soon shall cross the river, And will join her on the strand, With immortals long departed, In the fair, blest, happy land. When I'm gone you'll need protection, By a brave who knows no fear, And when sorrows overflow you, One to wipe away the tear.

"Then I'll watch and wait with Qualla, With the chiefs and warriors brave, Who have joined the tribe eternal, Conquered death, hell and the grave. I shall watch then for your coming, And I'll tell the mighty throng That you're coming in the future, And we'll greet you with the song,

"That the seraphs sing in glory, Casting gem crowns at the feet, Praising Him who reigns forever On the grand tribunal seat." As he talked his voice grew weaker, And his hand grew very chill, Then the moisture crowned his forehead, And his pulse was deathly still.

Then she knew that her dear mother And the great chiefs that had been Had op'ed the gate of heaven wide To let another brave chief in. Then she sobbed out for her father, As a broken-hearted child Will for loved ones just departed, Left so lonely in the wild.

But the dead, too soon forgotten, Now lies buried by the side Of his much lamented Qualla, Once his sweet and lovely bride, While their spirits dwell together, Free from care and want and pain, Where the tempest full of sorrow Ne'er can reach their souls again.

Years had flown since Occoneechee Saw her loving Whippoorwill, High upon the Smoky Mountain, Near the crystal rippling rill; For the white man had transported Brave and squaw and little child Far away to Oklahoma, To the western hills so wild.

Some had gone to the Dakotas, Some had gone to Mexico, Some had joined the tribe eternal; All were going, sure but slow. For the white man's occupation, Cherokee must give their land, And must give up all possessions, Go and join some other band.

Yet a residue of tribesmen Were allowed here to remain, 'Mid the mountains and the forest, And the meadows and the plain, But the strong men and the warriors, Most of them had gone away, Far across the mighty mountains Toward the closing of the day.

General Jackson's men in blue coats Came and took away the braves, Took away the squaw and papoose, Buried many in their graves, Yet the residue triumphant, Roamed out in the forest wild, Without shelter, food or comfort, For decrepid chief and child.

Sad and weary, long and dreary, Moved the Cherokee out West, With their store of skins and venison, And the trinkets they possessed. Up across the Smoky Mountains, Rough and rugged trail and road, Lined by rhododendron blossoms, Close beside where Lufty flowed.

When they down the gorge descended, Winding toward the Tennessee, Branch and bough o'erhead were bending And no landscape could they see, And the labyrinthian footway Led through forests dense and dark And the air was sweetly laden With the bruised birchen bark;

Hemlocks tall and swaying gently In the sighing passing breeze, And the fir and spreading balsam Joined the cadence of the trees. At the base of birch and hemlock Flowed the Pigeon fierce and bold, With its water clear as crystal, And its fountains icy cold;

Flowed the dauntless rapid waters, Fresh and pure and ever free, Rushed o'er cataract and cascade, Ever onward toward the sea. Whippoorwill, the wandering warrior, Shorn of power and of pride, Marched in single file and lonely, With his hands behind him tied.

Hands were bound with thongs and fetters-- Thongs and fetters could not hold Brave so gallant young and noble As this valiant warrior bold. For his thoughts of Occoneechee, Who was left far, far behind, With the residue of women, Stirred his brave heart and his mind.

On and on for days they traveled By the stream whose silver flow, From the great high Smoky Mountains, Became silent now and slow; For the rocks and rising ridges, Once their progress did impede, Now were fading in the distance, Could not now retard their speed.

And the journey, long and tedious, Wore the women, wore the brave, And they sore and much lamented, To be bound as serf or slave; For their free-born spirits never Had been bound by man before, Till the blue-coat Jackson soldier Came and dragged them from their door.

Corn was blooming on the lowlands When the journey they betook, And the grass gave much aroma, By the laughing Soco brook; But the suns and moons oft waning Brought the moon of ripening corn To a nation, broken-hearted, With a doubting hope forlorn.

Level lands brought no enchantment To a people who had known Naught but freedom till the present, Whose utopian dream had flown; Flown as flows the radiant river, Flown as flows the hopes of youth, From the red man of the forest. They were no more free, forsooth.

By and by the Father Waters Came in view of brave and squaw, And the skiff and side-wheel steamer Were the shifting scenes they saw, Plying fast the Father Waters, With a current slow and still, And reverberating whistles Shrieked a medley loud and shrill.

And the ferryboat was busy, Plying fast the liquid wave Of the Father Water's current, Bearing squaw and chief and brave, Till the last brave Indian warrior Crossed the Father Waters' tide, Crossed the gentle flowing river, With its current deep and wide.

Then they rested from their journey, Rested for a little while, On the bluff above the river, Where they saw her laughing smile. They could see the sun at morning Rise up quickly from his rest, See him hasting to his zenith, Soon to go down in the west.

Then the winter came on quickly, Killing corn and grass and cane, And the wind brought cloudy weather, With its snow and mist and rain, And the tribe within the barracks Were disheartened, one and all. And they longed now for their Lufty, With its cascade and its fall.

But at last the genial sunshine Took away the ice that froze The corn of hope, from the tribesmen, And the chilly wind that blows, Along the valley, of the river, Over bog and prairie, too; And an order came with springtime, "You the journey must renew."

Then they rose up in the morning, Rose before the dawn of day, Rolled and tied the tents together, And were quickly on their way, On their way to Oklahoma, Out across Missouri land, Chief and squaw and wary warrior, Marched the Cherokee brave band.

To the western reservation, Where the bison and the owl, And the she-wolf, fox and serpent Writhe and roam and nightly prowl; This the country where they took them, This the country that they gave In exchange for their own country, To the chief and squaw and brave.

Leaving all they loved behind them, Leaving all to them most dear, And they settled there so lonely, In a country dry and drear; There to pine away in sorrow, And repining, die of grief; From the solitude and silence Of this land there's no relief.

II.

Amid the hills of Carolina, Hills impregnant with rich bliss, With their grots and groves and fountains, Hills that love-beams love to kiss; Roamed the dark, but pretty maiden, Occoneechee, lovely child, Roamed she far out in the mountains, 'Mid their solitude so wild.

Dreamed she oft here, as she rambled, Of her warrior Whippoorwill, Of her lover, long her lover, Whom she first met near the rill, High upon the Smoky Mountains, Where the sunset's afterglow Holds the secrets of Dame Nature From the sons of men below.

Occoneechee sought her lover, Down Oconaluftee's vale, Through the brush and tangled wildwood, Without compass, chart or trail, Where the river Tuckaseigee Dashes down its rocky bed, Near a trail long since deserted, Over which a tribe once sped.

Then she wandered down the river, On and on, as on it flows, Wades the river, wades its branches, Follows it where'er it goes Through the laurel brush and ivy, Over spreading beds of fern, Over rock moss-covered ledges, Follows every winding turn,

Till it flows into the river, Called the Little Tennessee, Here she lingers long and tarries, And she strains her eyes to see If her vision will reveal him, And abates her breath to hear The voice of Whippoorwill, her lover, One of all to her most dear.

Yet no sound came to relieve her, And no vision came to please, And it never dawned upon her, Here among the virgin trees, That her lover was transported, With the brave and chief and child To the land of Oklahoma, Land so lonely, weird and wild.

Up the stream she then ascended, Slowly, surely did she march, 'Neath the spreading oak and hemlock, Resting oft beneath their arch. Walls of solid spar and granite Roared their heads up toward the blue, But no wall or hill or river Could impede the maiden true.

She now reached the Nantahala, Picturesque in every way, And she rested 'neath the shadow Of the mountain tall and gray; High the mountain, clear the water, That comes rushing down the side Of the mountain from the forest With its unpolluted tide.

Speckled beauties swam the water, Swam as only they can do; Deer in herds roamed all the forest, Only Cherokees were few. Eagles, swift upon their pinions, Soared aloft upon the air, They would turn their eyes to heaven, Then down on the maiden fair,

As to guard her in her roaming, For she had no other guide, Save one squaw and constellation, And the racing river tide. Birds had ceased their long migration, Not a cloud disturbed the blue Of the canopy of heaven, And the country they passed through.

Nightingale and thrush and robin Mated, sang and dwelt serene, In the forest, by the river, With its banks so fresh and green, And each spoke to Occoneechee, In the language Nature gives, Of the flora and the fauna, Where the child of Nature lives.

Then she rambled through the mountains, To the summit, grand and high, Where Tusquittee's bald and forest Penetrates the cloudless sky. Unobstructed vision reaches 'Cross the Valley River, wide, To the Hiawassee river, Flowing in its lordly pride.

Here the panorama rises In its beauty grand and gay, As you linger on the summit, As you hesitating stay; Visions long out in the distance; Haunt you with enchanted smile, And the reverie of Nature Doth the wanderer beguile.

Valleytown, the Indian village, And Aquone, the camping ground, Cheoas vale within the distance, Once where Cherokee were found, Came within the easy focus Of the trained observant eye Of the maiden on the mountain, Near the clearest vaulted sky.

Occoneechee looked and wondered, Scanned the mountain, scanned the vale, And she lifted up her voice there, And began to weep and wail; For her lover, long departed, For her lover brave and true, And she wondered if he tarried In the reaches of her view.

Still no sight or sound revealed him, Beauty smiled and smiled again, As she sighed and prayed to Nature, Yet her anxious thoughts were vain. For the valley and the mountain, And the river and the rill, Separated Occoneechee From her lover Whippoorwill.

Then she to the Hiawassee, Wound the mountain-side and vale, And she made a boat of hemlock, And she left the mountain trail, And she launched the boat of hemlock On the Hiawassee tide, Launched the boat and went within it, Down the silver stream to glide.

Down the river set with forest, Nottely joins the quickened pace Of the river and the maiden, In their onward rapid race, And she passes through the narrows, Through the narrows quick she flew, Through the spray and foaming current, With her long hemlock canoe.

Faster sped the boat of hemlock, Past the mountains and the shoal, Past the inlet Conasauga, Where Okoee waters roll; Here she stopped to make inquiry Of a relegated brave. If he'd seen her wandering lover, In the forest, by the wave.

Then she left the boat of hemlock, Roamed the forest far and wide, Crossed the mountain streams and fountains, With their cliff and foaming tide, Followed far Okoee river, Toccoa laves her weary feet, Ellijay and Coogawattee Do the pretty maiden greet.

Not a word in all her wanderings Did she hear of Whippoorwill, Though she roamed through leagues of forest, And by many a rippling rill. Candy creek and Oostanula, Both were followed to their source, With their winding current flowing In their ever onward course.

Where the brave had traveled with her, And had told her many tales Of the wars he'd been engaged in, And the windings of the trails, Over which the tribe had traveled In the years that long had flown, And the land now held by strangers, Which his tribe once called their own.

And at evening in the autumn, When the leaves turn brown and red, And the hickory and the maple Gild with yellow as they shed, And the poplar and the chestnut, And the beech and chinquapin, Hide the squirrel and the pheasant From the sight of selfish men;

Where the grapevine climbs the alder, Clings with tendril to the pine, And the air is sweetly laden With rich odors from the vine; And the walnut and the dogwood Furnish dainties rich and rare, For the chipmunk and the partridge, Which perchance do wander there.

Where the otter slide is slickened, And the weasel and the mink Do come creeping down the river, There to bathe and fish and drink, And the red fox roams the forest, And defies the fleetest hound, And the panther in the forest Makes a hideous screaming sound.

Here the brave would sit and tell them Tales and myths told oft before, Tales of war and of adventure, By great chiefs now known no more; And one night they heard the shrieking Of a wildcat near the stream, That awakened them from slumber And disturbed their peaceful dream;

For a panther, fierce and fearless, Had come creeping down the side Of the cliffs far up the mountain, Near the Hiawassee tide, And they met down near the river, And they fought down near the stream, And they made the night grow hideous With their awful shrieks and scream.

Then she took her boat of hemlock, And they launched it on the wave, And they sat upon its gunnels, Occoneechee squaw and brave, And they pushed out in the current, Where the waves were rolling high, And the boat sped through the rapids, Fast as flocks of pigeons fly.

Pushed they down and ever onward Toward the placid Tennessee, To the island and the inlet Of the rolling Hiawassee. Here they camped o'er night and rested, Told they tales of long ago, With their memories and sorrows Breathed they out their care and woe.

Then they floated down the river, On its smooth, unrippled tide. To the creek of Chicamauga, Where so many braves had died. And they tented near the river, Tied their boat up to the bank, Where John Ross had crossed the river, Where his ferryboat once sank.

Wandered through the vale of dryness, Chattanooga's pretty flow, Clear as crystal, pure as sunbeams, Winding hither too and fro. Drank the waters, bathed they in it, Fished and hunted stream and plain, Where the buffalo once wandered, But where none now doth remain.

Like a serpent that is crawling, Wriggling, writhing, resting not, Fleeing from a strange invader To some lone secluded spot, Winds and curves and turns forever, In its course that has no end, Swings to starboard and to larboard, Round the Moccasin's great bend.

Flows the river on forever, By the nodding flowering tree, Shedding fragrance like a censer, Flows the pretty Tennessee; On her bosom's crest is carried Precious burdens, rich and rare, From the fertile fields about her, And the ozone-laden air.

Occoneechee squaw and warrior Rode the silver-flowing tide, in the boat made out of hemlock, Which so long had been their pride; But the time now came for parting, As must come in every life, That is heir to human nature, With its toil and woe and strife.

Here Sequatchie's fertile valley, They approached and must ascend, Like the cloud before the sunbeam, Driven by the fiercest wind; Then they hid the boat of hemlock, Sure and safe, then bade adieu, To the boat upon the river, Which had been their friend so true.

Then they mounted little ponies, Fresh and sleek and fat and fast, And they sped along the valley, Like the birds upon the blast, Looking for the handsome warrior, Looking hither, glancing there, And quite often on the journey, They would stop to offer prayer;

But the valley held the secret; Not a living man could wrest, From the valley rich and fertile, Secrets buried in its breast; Though the tribe had ceased to own it, Though the tribe had passed away, From the valley of Sequatchie, Like the fading of the day,

Still the signs and many tokens Told a tale of war and strife, Where the whites had used the rifle, And the braves had used the knife, For the bleaching bones of warriors Were discovered everywhere, And the hideous sight brought sorrow, To this maiden now so fair,

Birds were singing in the forest, Merrily and full of glee, And a symphony unrivaled Flooded forestland and lea; With the mellow tones from singers, Varied, versatile and sweet, Came from forest and from meadow, Came the attuned ear to greet.

And when evening shade would settle, And the moon full rose to view, And the zephyrs filled the valley, And the flowers suffused with dew, Then the nightingale would lure them Or the mockingbird hold sway, From the advent of Orion, Till the dawning of the day.

Stretching meadows lay before them, Rich with fragrance, rare with flowers, Variegated blending colors Lent a rapture to its bowers, That outstripped the fields elysian, Decked with Nature's rarest guise, Pleasure-house for wisest sages, Such as only fools despise.

Such the scenes within the valley, As they joyous sped along, Filled with rapture, filled with pleasure, At the scenery and the song. Nature clapped her hands exultant, In the sylvan groves so green, Where the Goddess Proserpina Was enthroned majestic queen.

Mighty warriors red with passion, Once had trod this virgin soil, And had rested in the valley, When o'ercome by heat and toil; Sportive maidens once delighted To engage in dance and song, With the warriors in the valley, With the chieftains brave and strong.

But the mighty men and maidens Long since ceased this land to roam, Since the pale face armed with power, Killed the braves and burned the home, Took the land and burned the wigwam, Bound the chief and drove away, All the warriors, squaws and maidens, Toward the golden close of day.

Happy children, wild with rapture, Laughed with ecstasy and glee, Once had filled the vale with echoes, And had sported lithe and free, All along the hill-locked valley, Played lacrosse and strung the bow, Ran the races, caught the squirrel, In the distant long ago.

Sped they like the rolling torrent, Thru the Appalachian chain, With its towering peaks and gorges, 'Mid its sunshine and its rain, Sped along the flowing Chuckey, With its reddened banks of clay, Were delighted by its beauty, Were enticed with it to stay;

Saw the rushing, rolling waters Fall and foam and seeth below, Saw the cascade of Watauga Surging hither to and fro; Looked with tireless vision upward, Viewed from summits high and proud, Landscapes grander than Olympus, With their crags above the cloud.

"Occoneechee," said the warrior, In a gentle tone, and mild, "I remember all this grandeur, Since I was a little child, I have traveled trail and mountain, Chased Showono, deer and bear, Crossed Kentucky in the chases, Seen the blue-grass state so fair.

Once while hotly, I pursuing, Buck with antlers fierce and strong, Came upon a band of white men, With their rifles black and long, Came a flash of rifle powder, Quick as lightning came the sounds, From reverberating rifles, And the bark of baying hounds.

They had slain the buck with antlers, And would be upon me soon, If discovered by their captain, By their captain, Daniel Boone; He the hunter, Indian hater, Chief and captain, pioneer, Known to every tribe and tribesman, To be destitute of fear.

Quick I back into the forest, Without noise or slightest sound, Lest perchance I draw attention, From the hunter or his hound. 'Twas a wilderness of wildness, Transylvania was its name, Home of coon and hare and turkey, And all sorts of kindred game.

Once the noble chiefs and warriors Roamed Kentucky far and wide, Far along the broad Ohio, Strode the Indians by her tide; And they camped and roamed the forest, Dense and dark, supremely grand, Dominated vale and forest, Dominated all the land;

Chased the scouting bands of warriors, Who would dare to camp and die, On the soil of old Kentucky, Where the meadow grass grew high; Hiding 'neath the waving grasses, Where the muskrat and the snake, And the hedge hog and the weasel, Lurked in shade of vine and brake.

I was with good Junaluska, In the battles and the raids, Where the Creek and the Showano Lent each other all their aids, When upon the Tallapoosa River, at the Horseshoe bend, We joined hands with General Jackson, And by death we made an end,

Of the Creeks and all their allies, Who assembled, one and all. To resist our mighty forces, They had built their mighty wall, Built it strong and reinforced it, Not a single spot was weak, For 'twas built by master workmen, By the tribesmen of the Creek.

When the work was strong and finished, All the warriors came to dwell In the fortress, by the river, Came they tales of war to tell; Came a thousand of the warriors, With their weapons and their wives, Came and lodged within the fortress, Like the swarming bees in hives;

Brought their children and their chattels, Brought they gun, and club and spear, For they thought once in the fortress, That they'd have no harm to fear, But the Cherokee and Jackson Brought out cannon great and small, And they raised the siege of Horseshoe, Throwing many a shell and ball;

Into fortress, into village, Flew the missiles thick and fast, Like the rain, among the rigging, Of the sailor's spar and mast, Crushing, crashing stone of fortress, Making splinters of the wall, Of the fortress by the river, With the heavy cannon ball.

But it fell not in the fury Of the battle's hottest fray, Stood the test like old Gibraltar, All the night and all the day, And the progress was so slowly, That the battle must be lost, To the Cherokee and Jackson, And so great would be the cost,

If some means were not discovered, To dislodge the valiant Creek, Now entrenched within the fortress, Growing strong instead of weak. Junaluska said to Jackson, 'Choose ye this day man or men, Who can breast the tide before you, Who will try to enter in;

Who can swim the Tallapoosa, Who can stem the flowing tide, Who are noble, strong and fearless, And have God upon their side. If you have such men among you, Let them come forth one and all, Let them dare to do their duty, Let them dare to stand or fall.'

Not one man of all the white men Could be found who dared to try To o'ercome the Tallapoosa, Or would risk his life to die. So your guide whom God has given, Volunteered to risk the wave, With your father, Junaluska, Volunteered, his tribe to save.

Then we sought our God in silence, And became resigned to death, That lay out upon the current Of the river's silent breath. Under cover of the darkness, And the solitude of night, We betook the awful peril, With a tremor of delight.

Silently we now descended To the deathlike river tide, Following a star's reflection, For a signboard and a guide; To point out the right direction, And to bring us into port, Where the canoes lay at anchor, Near the stolid silent fort.

Quick we loosed them from their moorings Each man lashed beside his boat-- Quite a dozen, swift as arrows, And we set them all afloat; Shot them straight across the river, Like a flash at lightning speed, Faster than the fleetest greyhound, Bounding like a blooded steed.

When we reached the army's landing, Quick the boats were filled with men; Like a thunderbolt from heaven, Did the deadly work begin. Transports glided o'er the current, Like a shuttle to and fro, Moving Cherokee and white men, To confront a worthy foe.

Scaled the ramparts of the fortress, Stormed the inner citadel, And we massacred the inmates! How? No human tongue can tell. Not a woman, child or human Made escape, but all were slain In the fort or in the river, Or upon the gory plain.

When the massacre and slaughter Had abated, all the slain Numbered more than a thousand, In the fort or on the plain. Many floated in the river, Many died out in the woods, And were buried in the forest, By erosion or the floods.

Sad and silent stood the fortress, All deserted and alone; Not a man or child or matron, Now was left to claim their own. All the warriors and the chieftains Died in conflict true and brave; None were left to tell the story, Or to mark some lonely grave.

Cruel man! O God, forgive them! Pity such a cruel race. In their stead, O God of nations, Send some one to take their place, Who is humane, who is human, Who is honest, kind and true, Who when given strength and power, Destroys not, but spares a few.

In the lore of ancient nations, In the tales of modern times, In the prose that now remaineth, Nor the poet's splendid rhymes, Is a story told more cruel Than the slaughter of the Creeks, By the Persians, Jews or Romans, Macedonians or Greeks;

Where a nation, like a shadow, Vanished quickly and was not, Like a vapor in the valley Passes and is soon forgot. Passes like a fleeing phantom, Like a mist before the sun, Came and tarried for a moment, And forever was undone.

Occoneechee, come and travel, To the distant mountains high, Where the summit of the mountains, Tower upward toward the sky. Delectable the splendid mountains, Rich in ferns forever green, And the galaxy of the mountains Are the rarest ever seen.

Mortal eyes have never witnessed, Mortal tongue can never tell Of the grandeur and the beauty Of the ravine and the dell. Strange declivities confront you, Then a sudden upright wall Rises like a mystic figure, With a splendid waterfall.

I will take you to the summit Of the mountains white with age, And will show you where the tempests Rush and roar with ceaseless rage, Where phenomena electric Makes mysterious display Of their power and their beauty In the distance far away;

You can see the flash of lightning, And can hear the thunders roll, With reverberating echoes, That o'erwhelm your very soul, Make you sigh and shake and shudder, Make you tremble like a leaf, Make you crouch in soul and body, Like the life o'ercome with grief.

Yet you stand and gaze in wonder, Watch the elements grown dark; Adoration turns to terror, At the least electric spark; Vivid flashes light the heavens, Keep them in perpetual glow, Like aurora borealis From beyond eternal snow.

God eternal sends the sunshine, Melts the vapor, chains the cloud, Cages up the lightning flashes, Stops the peels of thunder loud. Changes discord into music, And the soul with it He thrills, From the music on the mountains, Made by leaping, laughing rills.

Look! behold the ray that cometh, Fills the earth with hope again, Dissipates the clouds and vapor, With their shadows and their rain. See the sunburst full of glory, Shoot forth rays of gilt and gold, Sung by bards, portrayed by artists Yet its glory ne'er was told.

Painters fail to give description, Fail on canvas to portray, Rising sun within the mountains, And the glorious dawn of day; Sages, bards and humble poets, All are pigmies in the eyes Of the one who stands and watches Sunshine from its sleep arise.

Picturesque! O scenes eternal! From the dizzy, dizzy heights Of Grandfather, Rone and Linville, From which rivers take their flights. Yadkin, Broad and the Catawbas, Where the Indians used to roam, Are the habitation only Of the white man and his home.

High upon the Linville mountains Creeps a silent silver stream, From the shadows of the forest, Like the splendor of a dream, Then it runs amid the boulders, Joins with many sparkling rills, That comes rushing from the forest, Of those high eternal hills,

Till its speed becomes augmented, Till you hear the rushing sounds, Of the Linville river raging, As it leaps and falls and bounds, As it dashes through the granite, Falls into the natural pool, Built by nature in the chasm, With its water clear and cool.

In the Blue Ridge range of mountains Stand a thousand spires and domes, Built of adamant eternal, From whose base the river roams, Like the maiden Occoneechee, Wanders out replete with tears, Into strange lands, unto strangers, Thru the lapse of passing years,

Longing to be reunited, With her fiance forever, From his presence and his wooing, To be separated never. Thus the river and the maiden Rambled through the mountains wild, Seeking for a long lost lover, As a mother seeks her child.

Climbs the black dome of the mountain, Richest pinnacle e'er seen; And the landscape lay before her, With its mounds and vales between. Lends enchantment grand and gorgeous, Gives a new lease unto life, And you soon forget you're living In a world of care and strife.

Thus Mount Mitchell in the Blue Ridge, Zenith hill among the hills, Sends forth life anew forever, And a thousand rippling rills. In the distance the Savannah's Flows a stream of pure delight, Flows she on, and on forever, Never stopping day or night.

For her mission is a true one, And the river ever true, Rolls along the grandest valley, That a river e'er rolled through; Peopled by a population Rich in soul and thought divine, From her source up in the mountains, Till her soul the sea entwines.

Turning to the sun that's setting, Setting far beyond the rim, Of the horizon of vision, Where the eyes grow weak and dim, You behold the Swannanoa, Naiad, pure and fresh and sweet, Crystalline, and cool and limpid, Strays some other stream to greet.

From the cliffside in the mountains Roll a thousand little streams, Laughing as they greet each other, Where the sunshine never beams; Rippling, idling, swirling slowly, Leaping down a waterfall, You can hear the drops of water, Sweetly to their compeers call.

Down the valley glides the river, Murmuring a sad farewell, To the birds and bees and people, Who along its highway dwell; Wishing them a happy future, Wishing them prosperity, While it fills its many missions 'Twixt the mountains and the sea.

Bathing rocks, refreshing people, Casting up its silver spray, As it glides along the valley, Flows forever and for aye. Men may move their tents and chattels, Others die or go astray, Still the stream flows fresh forever, Never resting night or day.

Giving life unto the flowers, Blooming on its verdant side, As it travels, as it journeys, As its ripples make their stride. In the gloaming of the twilight, When the birds had ceased to fly, And the dazzling dome of heaven Gave resplendence to the sky.

Occoneechee, squaw and warrior, Watched the stream, as on it sped, Rippling o'er the pebbly bottom, Lying on its rocky bed; Grasses waving green around them, Nodding boughs bid them adieu, And it wafted them caresses, Like the sunbeams sparkling dew.

Precious fragrance filled the valley, From the sweet shrub and the pine, Luscious fruits and ripening melons Lade the apple tree and vine. All along the pretty valley, Harvest fields and curing hay Make the white man rich and happy, Where the warriors used to stray.

At the juncture of the river, Where the Indians used to dwell, Where they made their pots of red clay, Made them crude but made them well, Here they tented long and hunted, Fished the Tah-kee-os-tee stream, Strolled along the racing river, Where its rippling waters gleam.

Moons passed on, and yet no greetings Came to cheer the wandering maid, Who so long had sought her lover, Till her hopes began to fade, And she felt that she must hasten, Quickly hasten thru the wild, By the rapid river racing, She the nature-loving child.

Then they took their little ponies, Girt them with a roebuck hide, Seated on the nimble ponies, Started swiftly on the ride, On to Toxaway the river, On to Toxaway the lake, Where the leaf of vine and alder, Hide the muskrat and the snake.

All along the racing river, Gorgeous forest trees are seen, And the wild deer in the forest Dwells beneath the coat of green. Here the beaver, hare and turkey Share their food and come to drink, In the splendid spreading forest, Near the Tah-kee-os-tee's brink.

Here they fished and caught the rainbow, Caught the little mountain trout, In the lake and in the river, With their poles both crude and stout; Caught the squirrel and the pheasant, Chased the turkey, deer and bear, Caught a-plenty, all they needed, Yet they had not one to spare.

In the sapphire land they lingered Many days and many nights, On the mountains, 'mid the laurel, Looking at the wondrous sights, That will greet you in the mountains, That you see in vales below, As you tread the paths untrodden, As you wander to and fro.

In the forest land primeval Where the fountains form their heads, Lies the famous vale of flowers, Splendid valley of pink beds. Every tribe and every hunter Knows this lone secluded spot, From the other vales so famous; When once seen is ne'er forgot.

In this vale of flowers and sunshine, Lies the Aidenn, most tranquil, Where the sore and heavy-laden, Gambol peacefully at will; Hear the trill of distant music, Played on Nature's vibrant chime, Resonant with sweetest concord All attuned to perfect time.

Here the weary, heavy-laden Soul, may lose his load of care, And the body, sick and wounded, Find an answer to his prayer. Precious incense here arises, From the brasier of the vale That ascends the lofty mountains, By an unseen, trackless trail.

Pisgah stands, the peer and rival Of Olympus, famed of old, Where the gods met in their councils, And their consultations held. Looking far across the valleys, They behold on either side, Rivers, vales and gushing fountains, Which forever shall abide.

In the distance stands eternal, Junaluska's pretty mound, Which in beauty of the landscape Is the grandest ever found. Rushing streams of purest water, Giving off their silver spray, Add a beauty to the forest, In a new and novel way.

And the balsam peaks of fir tree Looks like midnight in the day, Looks like shadows in the sunshine, In the fading far away. Dense and dark and much foreboding Apprehensions do declare, To the one who sleeps beneath them With its flood of balmy air.

"Occoneechee, forest dweller, We have traveled many miles, Through the mountains, o'er the valleys, Where the face of Nature smiled; We have tasted of the fountains, Whence breaks forth the Keowee, Nymph of beauty, joy and pleasure, Once the home of Cherokee.

We have rested near the water, Seen the fleck and shimmering flow, Of the waters kissed by Nature, Lovely river Tugaloo, Where the Cherokee once rambled, Spoiled 'mid the scenes so wild, Where the forest and the river Have the wood-gods oft beguiled.

Wandered o'er the sapphire country, Land which doth the soul delight, With its mounds and vales and rivers; God ne'er made a holier site For the human race to dwell in, Where the human soul can rise, Higher in its aspirations Toward the rich Utopian skies"

Here the lyrics sung by Nature, Played upon its strings of gold, Float out on the evening breezes, And its music ne'er grows old, To the soul and life and spirit, Which is bent and bowed with care. This the sweetest land Elysian, To the one who wanders there.

Convolutions of the lilies, Tranquil bloom and curve and die, Near the river, 'neath the shadows Of the white pine, smooth and high. Sparkling, gleaming in the sunlight Bursts the water, pure and free, From the rocks high on the mountains, Once the home of Cherokee.

Dancing, rippling, roaring, rushing, Comes Tallulah in its rage, Like an eagle bounding forward, From an exit in a cage. In the distance, you behold it Rise and babble, laugh and smile; Then amid the reeds and rushes, Turns and loiters for awhile.

Then it curves among the eddies, Hastens on to meet the bend, In the meadows, like the fragrance Borne aloft upon the wind; Silently reflecting sunbeams To the distant verdant hill From its surface calm and placid, Smooth, untarnished little rill;

Gleams and glides accelerated, As it gathers, as it grows, As the brook becomes a river, As it ever onward flows; Swirls and turns and dashes downward, Heaves and moans and dashes wild, For a chasm down the canyon, Like a lost, demented child;

Furious, frantic, leaps and lashes Down into the great abyss, Falls and foams and seethes forever Where the rocks and river kiss. Tallulah Falls, the work and wonder Of the cycles and the age, Pours its deluge down the ravine, Unobstructed in its rage.

Flying fowls of evil omen, Dare not stop it in its flight, Lest the river overwhelm them With its power of strength and might-- Lest the river dash to pieces Bird or beast that would impede Such a torrent as confronts you With its force of fearful speed.

Then it rushes fast and furious Into mist and fog and spray, Rises like the ghost of Banquo, Will not linger, stop nor stay. O'er the precipice it plunges, Bounds and surges down the steep, As it gushes forth forever, Toward the blue and boundless deep.

In the Appalachian mountains Stands Satulah, high and proud, With its base upon the Blue Ridge, And its head above the cloud. From its top the panorama Rises grandly into view, And presents a thousand landscapes, Every one to Nature true.

Round by round the mountains rise up, Round on round, and tier on tier, You behold them in their beauty, Through a vista, bright and clear. Like concentric circles floating, Ebbing on a crystal bay To the distance they're receding, Fading like declining day.

Hardby stands the Whiteside Mountain, Like an athlete, strong and tall, Perpendicularly rising As a mighty granite wall; Towering o'er the Cashier's valley, Stretching calmly at its base, Like a bouquet of rich roses Beautifying Nature's vase.

High above the other mountains, Whiteside stands in bold relief, With its court house and its cavern Refuge for the soul with grief; Like a monolith it rises To a grand majestic height, Till its crest becomes a mirror, To refract the rays of light.

From its summit grand and gorgeous Like a splendid stereoscope, Comes a view yet undiscovered Full of awe, and life and hope. Smiling vales and nodding forests Greet you like a loving child, From the zenith of the mountain, Comes the landscape undefiled.

Flying clouds pour forth their shadows, As the curious mystic maze Shrouds the mountains from the vision, With its dark and lowering haze. Fog so dense come stealing o'er you That you know not day from night, Till the rifting of the shadows Makes room for the golden light.

In the Blue Ridge, near the headland In the Hamburg scenic mountains, Comes a silver flow of water From a score of dancing fountains, Tripping lightly, leaping gently, Slipping 'neath the underbrush Without noise it creepeth slowly Toward the place of onward rush.

Floats along beneath the hemlock, Nods to swaying spruce and pine, Murmurs in its pebbly bottom Holds converse with tree and vine. Winds around the jutting ledges Of translucent spar and flint, With effulgence like the jasper With its glare and gleam and glint.

Moving onward, moving ever, In its course o'er amber bed, While the bluejay and the robin Perch in tree top overhead; Perch and sing of joy and freedom, Fill the glen with pleasure's song, As the waters, fresh and sparkling, Rippling, gliding, pass along.

Thus the Tuckaseigee river Rises far back in the dell, Where the dank marsh of the mountain Rise and fall, assuage and swell, Till its flow becomes augmented By a thousand little streams Coming from the rocky highlands Through their fissures and their seams.

Fills the valley, passes quickly, Trips and falls a hundred feet, Swirls a moment, makes a struggle, Doth the same rash act repeat. Rushes, rages, fumes and surges, Dashes into mist and spray, Heaves and sighs, foments and lashes, As it turns to rush away;

Roars and fills the earth and heaven With the pean of its rage, Plunges down deep in the gulches, Where the rocks are worn with age. Maddened by the sudden conflict, Starts anew to rend the wall That confines its turbid waters To the defile and the fall.

Once again it leaps and rushes Toward the towering granite wall, And it bounds full many a fathom In its final furious fall. Much it moans and seethes and surges, Starts again at rapid speed, O'er the rocky pot-hole gushes Like a gaited blooded steed.

Thus the Tuckaseigee river Falls into the great abyss Down the canyon, rough and rugged, Where the spar and granite kiss. Then it flows still fast and faster, With its flood both bright and clear, Through the cycles ripe with ages Month on month and year on year.

Near the apex of the mountains, In the silence of the dale, Where no human foot has trodden Path or road or warrior's trail, From the tarn or seep there drippeth Crystal water bright and free, That becomes a nymph of beauty, Pretty vale of Cullowhee.

In the spreading vale the townhouse, And the Indian village stood; In the alcove, well secluded, In the grove of walnut wood. Ancient chiefs held many councils, Sung the war-song, kept the dance, While the squaws and pretty maidens Vie each other in the prance.

Cullowhee, thou stream and valley, Once the domicile and home, Of a people free and happy, Free from tribal fear and gloom, Where, O where, are thy great warriors-- Where thy chiefs and warriors bold-- Who once held in strict abeyance Those who plundered you of old?

Gone forever are thy warriors, Gone thy chiefs and maidens fair, Vanished like the mist of summer, Gone! but none can tell us where. From their homes were hounded, driven, Like the timid hind or deer, Herded like the driven cattle, Forced from home by gun and spear.

"Tell me, vale or rippling water, Tell me if ye can or will, If you've seen my long-lost lover Known as wandering Whippoorwill?" But the water, cool and placid, That comes from the mountain high Swirled a moment, then departing Made no answer or reply.

Then the maiden's grief grew greater, As she lingered by the stream Watching for some sign or token Or some vision through a dream; But no dream made revelation, Only sorrow filled her years, And her eyes lost much of luster As her cheeks suffused with tears.

Turning thence into the forest Over hill and brook and mound, To the Cullasaja river Through the forest land they wound; Through the tangled brush and ivy, Rough and rugged mountainside, Led the ponies through the forest, Far too steep for them to ride.

They descended trails deserted, Where the chieftains used to go, Near the Cullasaja river, Near its rough uneven flow; Camped upon its bank at evening, Heard at night the roar and splash Of the voice of many waters Down the fearful cascade dash.

Stood at sunrise where the shadow Of the cliffs cast darkening shade, Where the rainbows chase the rainbow Like as sorrows chased the maid. Traveled down the silver current, Rested often on the way, Strolled the banks and fished the current Of the crystal Ellijay.

Pleasantly the winding current Eddies, swirls and loiters free Till it joins the radiant waters Of the little Tennessee; Where the mound stands in the meadow, Once the townhouse capped its crest, There the tribe was wont to gather, Council, plan and seek for rest.