O’er all the scene. In mortal agony his hand
Still tighter grasps his knife, and ’twixt
His lips compressed, in faint and broken voice,
He murmurs thus—“Great Spirit of my fathers!
In the pleasant hunting grounds receive me!”—
His spirit’s flown—the noble warrior’s dead;
His life-blood ebbed upon his native soil.
Free had he lived—free did the Seminole die.
H. H. B.