CHICOMICO.

THIS Poem I have discovered to be founded on the following actual occurrences: During the Seminole war, Duncan M. Rimmon, (the Rathmond of the poem,) a Georgia militiaman, was captured by the Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, condemned him to death. He was bound; but while the instruments of torture were preparing, the tender-hearted daughter of Hillisadjo (the Chicomico of the tale) threw herself between the prisoner and his executioners, and interceded with her father for his release. She was successful. His life was spared. In the progress of the war, however, it was the fate of the generous Hillisadjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a prisoner of war, and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These are the facts which Miss D. has wrought up, with other characters, (probably fictitious,) to compose the whole of this poem. The first part of the poem is so incomplete, that I have thought it best to introduce the reader immediately to the second part. The war had broken out. Chicomico had solicited the presence of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid her father Hillis-adjo against the whites, with Rathmond at their head. The battle is described, the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is taken prisoner. Here the second part commences.

EDITOR.

CHICOMICO.

(Written in her fourteenth year.)

PART II.

WHAT sight of horror, fear and woe,
Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe?
What thought of blood now lights his eye?
What victim foe is doomed to die?
For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild,
And he cares not to look on his only child.
His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire.
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire.
Alas! 't is Rathmond stands a prisoner now,
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe,
From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread,
To whose vindictive, cruel, savage mind,
Loss after loss fast following from behind,
Had only added thirst insatiate for blood;
And now he swore by all his heart held dear,
That limb from limb his victims he would tear.

But ah! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell?
Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell?
To die when manhood dawns in rosy light,

To be cut off in all the bloom of life,
To view the cup untasted snatched from sight,
Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife.

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Alas, poor youth! how sad, how faint thy heart! When memory paints the forms endeared by love; From these so soon, so horribly to part;

Oh! it would almost savage bosoms move! But unextinguished Hope still lit his breast, And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest! Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, Though sinking 'mid th' abyss o'er which it beamed! Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest bound, Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, And as it rolls away, gives up to fear: Dreads to look round, for death 's on every side, The low'ring clouds above the ocean wide: He wails alone-"and scarce forbears to weep,' That his wreck'd bark still lingers on the deep!

E'en to the child of penury and woe,

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Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep, Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow, Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep! Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink,

Snatch'd from each joy, which opening life may give, Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink, And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer to live!" But, see! the captive is now dragged along, While round him mingle yell and wild war-song! The ring is formed around the high-raised pile, Fagot o'er fagots reared with savage toil; Th' impatient warriors watch with burning brands, To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands! Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn, All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone! A horrid death is placed before his eyes; In fancy now he sees the flames arise,

* Campbell.

He hears the deaf'ning yell which drowns the cry
Of the poor victim's last, dire agony!
His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray
To that great God, before whose awful bar
His lighten'd soul was soon to wing its way
From this sad world to other realms afar!

He raised his eyes to Heaven's blue arch above,
That pure retreat of mercy and of love;
When, lo! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye,
The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die!
His haughty spirit now must be brought low,
Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe:
The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom,
As on they led him to his horrid doom.
A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned,
His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned:
His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear,
Though the death-note already met his ear.
Tall and majestic was his noble mien,

Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire,
His step was bold, his features all serene,
As he approached the steep funereal pyre!
Close at his side, a figure glided slow,
Clad in the dark habiliments of woe,
Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold,
All, save one treacherous ringlet, bright as gold.

The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high,
A signal that the victim soon must die!
While yell and war-note join the chorus still,
Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill!
Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze,
Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days;
When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye
Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die,