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 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 belt around
    his waist,
Call’d for vermilion paint (his looking-glass was held before him,)
Painted half his face and neck, his wrists, and back-hands. 
Put the scalp-knife carefully in his belt—­then lying down, resting
    moment,
Rose again, half sitting, smiled, gave in silence his extended hand
    to each and all,
Sank faintly low to the floor (tightly grasping the tomahawk handle,)
Fix’d his look on wife and little children—­the last: 

(And here a line in memory of his name and death.)

} A Voice from Death

A voice from Death, solemn and strange, in all his sweep and power,
With sudden, indescribable blow—­towns drown’d—­humanity by
    thousands slain,
The vaunted work of thrift, goods, dwellings, forge, street, iron bridge,
Dash’d pell-mell by the blow—­yet usher’d life continuing on,
(Amid the rest, amid the rushing, whirling, wild debris,
A suffering woman saved—­a baby safely born!)

Although I come and unannounc’d, in horror and in pang,
In pouring flood and fire, and wholesale elemental crash, (this
    voice so solemn, strange,)
I too a minister of Deity.

Yea, Death, we bow our faces, veil our eyes to thee,
We mourn the old, the young untimely drawn to thee,
The fair, the strong, the good, the capable,
The household wreck’d, the husband and the wife, the engulfed forger
    in his forge,
The corpses in the whelming waters and the mud,
The gather’d thousands to their funeral mounds, and thousands never
    found or gather’d.

Then after burying, mourning the dead,
(Faithful to them found or unfound, forgetting not, bearing the
    past, here new musing,)
A day—­a passing moment or an hour—­America itself bends low,
Silent, resign’d, submissive.

War, death, cataclysm like this, America,
Take deep to thy proud prosperous heart.

E’en as I chant, lo! out of death, and out of ooze and slime,
The blossoms rapidly blooming, sympathy, help, love,
From West and East, from South and North and over sea,
Its hot-spurr’d hearts and hands humanity to human aid moves on;
And from within a thought and lesson yet.