DEATH OF OSCEOLA. THE WANDERER'S RETURN

Maumee Express. March 3, 1838
Rutland Herald. April 10, 1838
From Google+ [Edited: 2014-07-27]
                From the Madisonian.
    Our correspondent will please to accept our
thanks for the touching and beautiful dirge on
Osceola. The last of his race could not have
lamented him in a strain of deeper pathos, or
truer sublimity.
        DEATH OF OSCEOLA.
The Indian Chief stood pensively
    Within his prison cell;—
He who had led his warlike tribe,
    Where many, fighting, fell;—
And though death's hand was on him then,—
    Though raged the fever high—
Still anger sat upon his brow,
    And vengeance fired his eye!

Imagination carried him
    To days that then were past,
When followed by his gallant band
    He braved the battle's blast;
And saw the balls that round him fell
    As thickly as the hail,
When wintry clouds obscure the sky,
    And wintry winds prevail!

He mused—and then compared his state—
    The present with the past;
Once, fighting for his native land—
    Now, bound in fetters fast!
His haughty[/mighty] spirit spurned control—
    Insulted was his pride;—
A short farewell—a bitter curse—
    And OSCEOLA died!


The World Of Fashion And Continental Feuilletons. 1838 (page 38)
From Google+
      THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Years had gone by—his hair was grey,
Who sought again the much lov'd spot,
Where youth's first hours had passed away
'Mid friends who ne'er might be forgot.
The path he trod—he knew it well,
The ancient oak its shade still shed;
But those he sought no one could tell,
But wondering answered—“They were dead.”

He sought the cot of one he'd left,
A laughing merry-hearted thing;
Who near his youthful heart had crept,
As tendril round a flower of spring!
Where is she now? The laughing voice,
The happy, tripping, blithesome tread,
No longer bids his heart rejoice,
But echo whispers—“She is dead!”

His sisters, say, ah where are they,—
Companions of his youthful hours?
He sought them where they used to play,
But sad and cheerless were the bowers.
The trees they'd planted side by side,
Now proudly waved above his head;
He asked, “Where are they?” they replied,
“Thy sisters, wanderer—they are dead!”

He turned away—his brother dear,
The boy his mother doated on;
How is it that he is not here,
To welcome back the wandering one?
He called him by his well known name,
But echo answered in his stead—
Again the chilling response came,
“Thy brother, wanderer—he is dead!”

His sire was full of manhood's pride
When he had left, a boy, his home,
His mother's cheek had time defied,
He fondly thought, for years to come;
He sought them both, but there alas,
Within the churchyard's narrow bed,
A tombstone told him as he passed,
“Thy parents, wanderer—they are dead!”

He sought again the ancient hall,
Where desolation held her sway,
And heard the owl's dull croaking call,
And bats against the casement play.
His footsteps on the marble floor
Aroused th' intruders, and they fled;
Shrieking, “thy friends, they are no more,
Maid, brother, sisters—all are dead!”
                                            W. H. FLEET.
————
Also, in the
Glimpses of our Ancestors in Sussex. 1882 (page 268)