in the noiseless flickering flames, Again I see the stalwart ranks on-filing, rising—I hear the rhythmic tramp of the armies;) You million unwrit names all, all—you dark bequest from all the war, A special verse for you—a flash of duty long neglected—your mystic roll strangely gather’d here, Each name recall’d by me from out the darkness and death’s ashes, Henceforth to be, deep, deep within my heart recording, for many a future year, Your mystic roll entire of unknown names, or North or South, Embalm’d with love in this twilight song.
When the Full-Grown Poet Came
When the full-grown poet came, Out spake pleased Nature (the round impassive globe, with all its shows of day and night,) saying, He is mine; But out spake too the Soul of man, proud, jealous and unreconciled, 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.
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