The Grave of Osceola

A Young Indian Chief,

Who died in captivity of a broken Heart.

By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney

Red Eagle of the Western sky,  That dar'd the king of day, Who struck thee from thine eyrie high  To grovel in the clay? Strong heart and bold!—who laid thee low?  No blood thy pinions stain'd, No arrow from the archer's bow  Thy fearless bosom pain'd.

What spell hath made thy spirit quail?  What dimm'd thy piercing eye? Thy pale-fac'd brother knows the tale,  But renders no reply. Why breathes he not some dirge of woe,  Beside thy resting place? Some lay thy murmuring shade to soothe,  Thou noblest of thy race!

But lo! a sudden requiem flow'd,  In wild unmeasur’d tide— For pitying nature gave the strain  That haughty man denied. A linnet, from the willow bough,  Pour'd forth a mournful lay, And with sad melody detain'd  The partimg ear of day.

While still the distant sea that roam'd  The pebbly beach along, In low and fitful murmurs lent  A cadence to the song. So, where by balmy breezes sway'd  The dark palmettoes wave, That lonely minstrel its wail prolonged'd  O'er Osceola's grave.

And then, methought, a shadowy train,  The buried chiefs of old, With stately form and plumed brow,  Came gliding o'er the wold, And with a stern, upbraiding eye  Yon new-raised mound survey'd, And, pointing toward the avenging sky,  Were lost in evening's shade.