University of Virginia Library

Scene III

(Osceola's cottage in the distance. Enter Osceola meeting Selma).
Selma
Great Chief! the Seminolian's hour is nigh!

Osceola
Why say you so? Then let it come. There is
No terror in that warning now for me!
I love the grandeur of my native Hills—
The music of the streams—the roaring Winds—
Whirlwinds sweeping down the giant Oaks;
For they have been companions from my youth.

Selma
Nay, curb this hostile madness of thy heart—
They will reward thee with a better home.

Osceola
What profit will that be to him who does
Not wish a better one? Oh! foolish man!
You little know what feasts the Indian's soul!
Then, afterwards, call Osceola murderer.
Telling their children, after they have learned
To know what Osceola means, that here,
Or there, or somewhere else, he cut their throats!
Oh! how the White-man's tongue will tell them lies!
These mighty thoughts have rushed across my soul,
Like whirlwinds through the forest cane on fire—
Bearing their crackling cenders up to Heaven!
I see before me what will be our fate!
I see the dark cloud parted by the Storm,
While through the rent comes down the fiery rain
To blast the flowery earth beneath my feet!

Selma
But you will be rewarded for all this.

Osceola
Ah! what will pay me for the loss of home?

Selma
Why, money.

Osceola
Money! money! what is that?
A little shining pale-face stuff that lies
By promising that which it cannot buy!
It cannot buy you friends that have been slain!
Nor can it make the simplest thing on earth!
Then what is it to all those joyful streams
That fit the tongue for music like their own?
Or, what is it beneath the moaning Pine
To him who has been hunted by the foe,
And needs the cool refreshment of the shade!
What is it to those old familiar Oaks
Of my acquaintance on my native hills?
A thousand mountains of pure gold could not
Purchase from me one of my children's graves.
For what would all these mountains profit me
If dying for one drop of water? Naught.
When, if but one small stream gushing by,
It would be worth more than their weight in gold.
Then, who would help the mountain after that,
The man, who lay there dying, for the stream?
I tell thee that the thing called money, is
Not what it seems to be. It cannot make
The cooling breezes of the flowery Spring.
And still proud man will hug it to his heart,
And, rather than permit it to escape,
Will drive his wife away in poverty!
I hate the name of money. There is not
A spark of honesty about the thing!
It has no beauty in its shine for me,
When underneath it lies the venomed sting
That poisons many an honest soul to death,
That, but for its acquaintance, would be just.
It was my fate about three Moons ago,
To give three pieces to my little boy,
Who, from that moment forth, began to pine,
But hugged them to his bosom till his death!
I have not carried it about me since.
There is some Magic in its serpent shine.
It leads the mightiest warriours by the hand,
As gently as the father leads his child,
And he will listen to its foolish clink
As if it were some music from the skies
The purest gold that ever left the mine.
Is blacker, on the outside, than the rock.
It is the rock above that tells of gold
Below—as by the White-Man's smile is seen
The outside cunning of his inside heart.
But take this black stuff from its blacker back,
And give it to the White-Man, he will lead
Millions of mighty men to deadly war!
Who, from the deathless love of love for it,
Will see ten thousand deaths to live one life
With that which has no sympathy for life;
And call it glory—fighting for their soil—
And, after all, be killed by it at last!
And all for that infernal stuff which man
Has dug up from the earth to cheat the world!
There is no native shine upon its face.
It only flitters like the Serpent's eyes,
To charm the unwary flutterer to its jaws,
Then afterwards, to swallow him down whole!

Selma
And thou wilt then, in spite of money—spite
Of that great Capital which rules the world,
And leads such mighty men to war—make war?

Osceola
The eagle that has roosted on the pine,
Will shake his pinions on the pensive bough,
And, rising on the dewy breath of Morn,
Shew him in joy to the Sun's Eye gloriously,
Nor heed the frozen armour that has weighed
All night upon his snowy wings. Farewell!

(Exeunt)
(Enter Naymoyah meeting Celuta).
Celuta
Come, beauteous Cygnet from the Lake of Swans—
(For thou hast seen the young Hind in thy dreams—)
Celuta loves thee well!

Naymoyah
Why dost thou weep!

Celuta
Thou shalt not hear me say—for thou will know!

Naymoyah
Far well Naymoyah knows Celuta's heart.

Celuta
I asked Manitou from the Land of Souls,
To heal the festering wound that grief had made;
But there is no great Prophet in this world!
Rejoice, Naymoyah! for we soon shall part!

Naymoyah
Why say you so, Celuta? speak to me!

Celuta
The White-Man's foot is now upon our hills,
And Osceola goes to lay them low!
The spirit of his father leads him on.
I heard them, when the night was on thine eyes,
Speaking of this great thing.

Naymoyah
He will not go.

Celuta
What! Osceola? He who told me so,
Is firmer than the fixed Star of the North—
I hear the thunder of the big-mouth drum.
Coming in whirlwinds from the far-off Hills,
To rouse the Warriours from their thousand tents!
Now then, Naymoyah, listen to my voice;
Swim not the roaring waters for my sake
But come back to me at the New Moon,
To the Valley of Sweet Waters, where the Fawn
Lies speckling in the sun. I will not join
The Old Times of my fathers, till I come
To thee again. Celuta loves thee well.

Naymoyah
The Eagle may outsoar the dove, but yet
The Dove flies swifter to her native nest.
The Bee that gathers honey from the flower,
Knows where to find that tender flower again;
And, as it hungers for the same sweet flower,
So will Naymoyah for Celuta's love.

Celuta
Gather the Wild-flowers by the Roaring Stream,
And, just five moons from this, come down to me
Where the young Doe suckles her Fawn in love
By the light of the moon by night. Farewell!

Naymoyah
Nay, stay Celuta! tears are in thine eyes!

Celuta
Naymoyah! They are shed for thee! Farewell!
Remember, that Celuta loves thee well!

(Exeunt)