University of Virginia Library

Scene IV

(Osceola's Tent in the Indian camp. Celuta is discovered scattering flowers on the dead body of her child.)
Celuta
Bright Rose of the Desert! brightest of all!
Thou wert the first young love of Celuta's heart!
I baptized thee with the new milk from my breast,
In the shadow of the aged Oak, where
Thy poor dear mothers shall see thee no more!
The Pigeons may come from the frozen North,
And the young Doves from the Isles of the Sea,
But thou, oh, my soul! will return no more!

(Enter Osceola.) Osceola.
Celuta! the big tears are in thine eyes!
The Great Spirit, who tries the soul of men,
Will lead us along by our father's groves
To where the spirit of our young child lives!

Celuta
He is gone to the Big Light's Father there
To rest in the arms of the Milky Moon.
But will the White-Man tread upon his bones?

Osceola
Yes, they will crush his body into dust!
But the hour is nigh when the silent woods
Shall tremble again at the warriour's voice,
And the sulphurous smoke of the noisy gun
Turn the bright Sun up in the Heavens to eclipse!
Two Moons ago, we had no tears to shed—
Now we are fuller than the sea with waves!

(Enter an Indian Warriour guarding Selma who is disguised as a Soldier.)
Warriour
Great Chief! this captive Soldier—shall he die?

Osceola
What is his name?

Selma
Graham.

Osceola
Graham? that voice?
No—let him go.

Warriour
But Miccanopy says
All White-men, caught by us, must die.

Osceola
Touch not
A hair upon his head! I recollect he cured
A little child of mine some Moons ago;
And Osceola's heart does not forget.
The best of men are not without some fault,
And for the little that is in my soul,
He shall not die. Let him alone! away!

(Exit warriour.)
Selma
Our general sent me here to say to you
That he is tired of war, and now wants peace—
That all who carry rifles in their hands,
From this day forth, shall be shot down.

Osceola
(aside)
That voice!
That is not Graham's voice!—Go, tell thy Chief
I am the Gulf Stream of the Sea of all
My people. Did you ever know it to run back?
When did the Eagle ever cease to be
A bird of prey because the turtle mourns?
Then put thy one hand into both of mine
And take back to thy general all my heart,
And tell him that the streams run down the hills.

Selma
Perhaps thy people will agree to this.

Osceola
The Chiefs are the Hills of their native land—
The people are the streams from these great Hills.
When they all gather into one great Stream,
There is no power on earth can stay their course!
A full blood Indian never changed his mind.
So Osceola, called the Rising Sun,
And Miccanopy, old Top Chief,
Can never change. Go tell thy general this.

(Enter Soldiers, armed, who surround Osceola).
Selma
Look, Osceola! look! they come for thee!
Behold, the soul of Simighan is here!

(Throwing off his disguise).
Osceola
Oh! ye Almighty Whirlwinds of the Deep!
Gather yourselves together in the clouds,
And mustering up the Engines of your wrath,
In one consuming Cataract of Fire,
Let it be syllabled in one deep word,
And let that word be poured out by the mouth,
Of an immortal Thunder as the curse
Of Osceola on that traitor's head!
What, Selma? is this you, my boy? then die!

(Osceola stabs him and, in falling, is caught by one of the Soldiers).
Selma
Oh, God! Where is Naymoyah? Call her here!
To me! there! hold! she did not think of this!
Brave Soldiers! lash him to the same foul stake
They bound poor Selma to—then cut his throat!
I go to find Naymoyah! Fare thee well!

(Exit).
Osceola
No mortal's eyes did ever yet look on
The full-orbed glory of the Rising Sun
Unblinded! Never yet did mortal man
Stand up to Osceola, face to face,
And afterwards, confronting him to live!
The prize he has been fighting for is life;
The one foe which he now contends is death!
So meet me every coward one of you—
Come on, ye pale-face, chicken-hearted brats!
And let me teach you Indian skill! No, stand!
And let your hearts grow stronger by delay!
For now ye all stand huddled round like sheep.
Stamping the desert earth with meaning looks
Each one the other watching who flies first!
Ye may be Stars of Certain magnitude,
But already flabbergasted at the Rising Sun!
But now that he has passed his noontide hour,
Where none shall ever shine as he has shone!
And setting, never more shall shine again!
In the dark night that he shall leave behind,
Shine out the little sparks of light, ye have
The brightest in the darkest hour—for now
The cloud that passes on my soul, shall be
The darkest that the Indian ever saw!
Look at the plague-spot that your treachery daubs
Upon the brightest name that ever shone!
But all the glory ye shall ever gain
By gazing at this huge eclipse, is that
Which Osceola's name shall give to thine—
Linked with the foulest deed that ever stained
The Annals of the damned! The Night is here!
(turning to Celuta)
Celuta! come to me, my love! look up!
See how my foes now compass me around!

Celuta
Alas! what will they do with thee, great Chief?

Osceola
The great high Spirit, who now walks in Heaven,
Has called for Osceola—he must go!
Celuta! we must part!

Celuta
Oh! say not so!

Osceola
What the Great Spirit says, it must be done!

Celuta
How long will thou be gone?

Osceola
Five Moons or more.
If any longer, than wilt come to me,
Where the Great Spirit lives! But do not weep!
And when the Sun goes down upon the Sea,
Leaving the full orbed Moon walking through Heaven
In Silence—see how very true she is—
Be so to Osceola!

Celuta
That I will!

Osceola
But, White-Man! write not Osceola's name!
No! bring him back again, when he is dead
And dig his grave deep in the blessed earth—
Here, where the noisy cataract now sings
The wild sweet anthem of his native land,
And tells the world of freedom! Lay me here;
And let the joyous birds sing at my grave!
But write not Osceola's name again!
Let not the White-Man stain the virgin sheet
Writing the name that he has blackened so!
For it is written on the mighty Hills
In characters that shall outlive the Sun!
No, White-Man! lock it in the deep cold grave
With Osceola's heart!—there let it rest!
And when the dusky slave shall come to tell
The Axman's Signal to my native Oaks—
Rousing the ponderous silence of the woods
With pompous noise of axes—bid him tread
Not on the willow-shaded grave of him
Who never looked upon created thing—
Save on the footsteps of his God—with fear!
Then, when they tread upon my father's bones,
That they shall plough up from my native soils,
They will remember Osceola's name,
And stand upon his only Monument!
And when the children, wandering through the woods,
Shall pluck the flowers that he has gazed upon,
Teach them to say that Osceola died
Just as he lived—the White-Man's foe! (turning to Celuta again)

Look up, thou bending flower to the Setting Sun!
And catch the last fond glimmer of his beams!
For, in one hour from this, he will be dark—
Dark as the unlighted world beyond the grave!
How hard it is for me to part from thee!
Harder than dying by the White-Man's hand!
But it must be—there is no other hope!

Soldier
Great Chief! thy wife is privileged to go.

Osceola
Who was it spoke that blessed word? Thank God!

(Exeunt omnes).