OSCEOLA

The feathers of the eagle-bonnets ride upon the north wind;

The sachems and their totems have perished in the fire;

Through the valleys and the rivers and the mountains that you fought for

Beats the quick desire.

In the happy hunting ground of proven warriors,

You have passed the pipe of peace at council fire

With the pale-face and the Zulus’ mighty chieftains —

Rest with dead desire.