THE SEMINOLE.
Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie,Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend,Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours,There stood a warrior Chief. His eagle eyeShot a searching look on all around. His formWas symmetry; and proudly eminentIn all the majesty of pride and strength,That Indian stood. One look at Heaven,One glance at earth he cast, and then he yelledA whoop so terrible, so fiercely wild,All nature seemed to start. As, whenOn Afric’s sands a wounded lion roars,The desert quakes, so now the sunbeamsTrembled upon each quiv’ring leaf. But see!He starts—he bounds into the forest depths,And all is still again.Two moonsTheir circling revolutions had fulfilled.Twas when the evening breezes softly breathed,Wafting sweet odors from the balmy groves,And from each songster of the wood there roseA vesper hymn, and over all the sceneTwilight a soft and rosy tint had spread—Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sitThat warrior Indian. His head was stillProudly erect. But his glassy eyeOn vacancy was fixed, and from his sideThere flowed a crimson stream that spake of death.Alas! how changed the noble warrior!His snowy plume—the captured eagle’s gift—Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;—Yet see! he rises slowly—but anon,He reels—he falls—a deathless stillness comesO’er all the scene. In mortal agony his handStill tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixtHis lips compressed, in faint and broken voice,He murmurs thus—“Great Spirit of my fathers!In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”—His spirit’s flown—the noble warrior’s dead;His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil.Free had he lived—free did the Seminole die.H. H. B.
Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie,Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend,Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours,There stood a warrior Chief. His eagle eyeShot a searching look on all around. His formWas symmetry; and proudly eminentIn all the majesty of pride and strength,That Indian stood. One look at Heaven,One glance at earth he cast, and then he yelledA whoop so terrible, so fiercely wild,All nature seemed to start. As, whenOn Afric’s sands a wounded lion roars,The desert quakes, so now the sunbeamsTrembled upon each quiv’ring leaf. But see!He starts—he bounds into the forest depths,And all is still again.Two moonsTheir circling revolutions had fulfilled.Twas when the evening breezes softly breathed,Wafting sweet odors from the balmy groves,And from each songster of the wood there roseA vesper hymn, and over all the sceneTwilight a soft and rosy tint had spread—Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sitThat warrior Indian. His head was stillProudly erect. But his glassy eyeOn vacancy was fixed, and from his sideThere flowed a crimson stream that spake of death.Alas! how changed the noble warrior!His snowy plume—the captured eagle’s gift—Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;—Yet see! he rises slowly—but anon,He reels—he falls—a deathless stillness comesO’er all the scene. In mortal agony his handStill tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixtHis lips compressed, in faint and broken voice,He murmurs thus—“Great Spirit of my fathers!In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”—His spirit’s flown—the noble warrior’s dead;His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil.Free had he lived—free did the Seminole die.H. H. B.
Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie,Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend,Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours,There stood a warrior Chief. His eagle eyeShot a searching look on all around. His formWas symmetry; and proudly eminentIn all the majesty of pride and strength,That Indian stood. One look at Heaven,One glance at earth he cast, and then he yelledA whoop so terrible, so fiercely wild,All nature seemed to start. As, whenOn Afric’s sands a wounded lion roars,The desert quakes, so now the sunbeamsTrembled upon each quiv’ring leaf. But see!He starts—he bounds into the forest depths,And all is still again.
Where the oak and the pine in grandeur vie,
Where the orange and lemon their fragrance blend,
Where its rushing stream the rivulet pours,
There stood a warrior Chief. His eagle eye
Shot a searching look on all around. His form
Was symmetry; and proudly eminent
In all the majesty of pride and strength,
That Indian stood. One look at Heaven,
One glance at earth he cast, and then he yelled
A whoop so terrible, so fiercely wild,
All nature seemed to start. As, when
On Afric’s sands a wounded lion roars,
The desert quakes, so now the sunbeams
Trembled upon each quiv’ring leaf. But see!
He starts—he bounds into the forest depths,
And all is still again.
Two moonsTheir circling revolutions had fulfilled.Twas when the evening breezes softly breathed,Wafting sweet odors from the balmy groves,And from each songster of the wood there roseA vesper hymn, and over all the sceneTwilight a soft and rosy tint had spread—Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sitThat warrior Indian. His head was stillProudly erect. But his glassy eyeOn vacancy was fixed, and from his sideThere flowed a crimson stream that spake of death.Alas! how changed the noble warrior!His snowy plume—the captured eagle’s gift—Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;—Yet see! he rises slowly—but anon,He reels—he falls—a deathless stillness comesO’er all the scene. In mortal agony his handStill tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixtHis lips compressed, in faint and broken voice,He murmurs thus—“Great Spirit of my fathers!In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”—His spirit’s flown—the noble warrior’s dead;His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil.Free had he lived—free did the Seminole die.
Two moons
Their circling revolutions had fulfilled.
Twas when the evening breezes softly breathed,
Wafting sweet odors from the balmy groves,
And from each songster of the wood there rose
A vesper hymn, and over all the scene
Twilight a soft and rosy tint had spread—
Upon a grassy knoll was seen to sit
That warrior Indian. His head was still
Proudly erect. But his glassy eye
On vacancy was fixed, and from his side
There flowed a crimson stream that spake of death.
Alas! how changed the noble warrior!
His snowy plume—the captured eagle’s gift—
Is pure no more, but sprinkled o’er with blood;—
Yet see! he rises slowly—but anon,
He reels—he falls—a deathless stillness comes
O’er all the scene. In mortal agony his hand
Still tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixt
His lips compressed, in faint and broken voice,
He murmurs thus—“Great Spirit of my fathers!
In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”—
His spirit’s flown—the noble warrior’s dead;
His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil.
Free had he lived—free did the Seminole die.
H. H. B.
H. H. B.