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. )