Nay, he is mine alone;
— Then the full-grown poet stood between the two, and took
     each by the hand;
And to-day and ever so stands, as blender, uniter, tightly
     holding hands,
Which he will never release until he reconciles the two,
And wholly and joyously blends them.

1891 1891-2

OSCEOLA

(When I was nearly grown to manhood in Brooklyn, New York (middle of 1838), I met one of the return'd U.S. Marines from Fort Moultrie, S. C., and had long talks with him — learn'd the occurrence below described — death of Osceola. The latter was a young, brave, leading Seminole, in the Florida war of that time — was surrender'd to our troops, imprison'd, and literally died of "a broken heart", at Fort Moultrie. He sicken'd of his confinement — the doctor and officers made every allowance and kindness possible for him; then the close.)

WHEN his hour for death had come,
He slowly rais'd himself from the bed on the floor,
Drew on his war- dress, shirt, leggings, and girdled the belt
     around his waist,
Call'd for vermilion paint (his looking-glass was held before
     him,)
Painted half his face and neck, his wrists, and back-hands,
Put the scalp-knife carefully in his belt — then lying down,
     resting a moment,

Rose again, half sitting, smiled, gave in silence his extended
     hand to each and all,
Sank faintly low to the floor (tightly grasping the tomahawk
     handle,)
Fix'd his look on wife and little children — the last:
(And here a line in memory of his name and death.)

1890 1891-2

A VOICE FROM DEATH

A VOICE from Death, solemn and strange, in all his sweep and
     power,
With sudden, indescribable blow — towns drown'd — humanity
     by thousands slain,
The vaunted work of thrift, goods, dwellings, forge, street,
     iron bridge,
Dash'd pell-mell by the blow — yet usher'd life continuing on,
(Amid the rest, amid the rushing, whirling, wild debris,
A suffering woman saved — a baby safely born!)
Although I come and unannounc'd, in horror and in pang,
In pouring flood and fire, and wholesale elemental crash,
     (this voice so solemn, strange,)
I too a minister of Deity.

Yea, Death, we bow our faces, veil our eyes to thee,
We mourn the old, the young untimely drawn to thee,
The fair, the strong, the good, the capable,
The household wreck'd, the husband and the wife, the engulf'd
     forger in his forge,
The corpses in the whelming waters and the mud,
The gather'd thousands to their funeral mounds, and thousands
     never found or gather'd.

Then after burying, mourning the dead,
(Faithful to them found or unfound, forgetting not, bearing
     the past, here new musing,)
A day — a passing moment or an hour — America itself bends
     low,
Silent, resign'd, submissive.

War, death, cataclysm like this, America,
Take deep to thy proud prosperous heart.

E'en as I chant, Io! out of death, and out of ooze and slime,
The blossoms rapidly blooming, sympathy, help, love,
From West and East, from South and North and over sea,
Its hot-spurr'd hearts and hands humanity to human aid
     moves on;
And from within a thought and lesson yet.

Thou ever-darting Globe! through Space and Air!
Thou waters that encompass us!
Thou that in all the life and death of us, in action or in sleep!
Thou laws invisible that permeate them and all,
Thou that in all, and over all, and through and under all,
     incessant!
Thou! thou! the vital, universal, giant force resistless,
     sleepless, calm,
Holding Humanity as in thy open hand, as some ephemeral
     toy,
How ill to e'er forget thee!