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Then give him, in his full and perfect worth,
Such woman is—and shall proud man forbear,
THE INDIAN MOTHER TO HER SON.
Thy foot is on thy father's grave,
eye is on thy father's foes,
There, last his war-whoop yell arose ! And where thy sire's last deed was done, There first thine arm shall wake, my son.
Thou see'st this flower—thy father's heart
Hath nourish'd up its early bloom; And thou, to me, hast been a part
Of life, and hope, through years of gloom.The flowret's stem is rent--and thou Must tear thee from thy mother now.
Ay, hie thee forth—the red man's yell,
To-night, shall break our foemen's sleep; And shrieks, and flames, and blood, shall tell,
How Indian hearts their vengeance keep!
Yon evening wreath of fleecy smoke
Curls gently up against the sky,But once through darker volumes broke
The midnight flame, the mother's cry! And there again the day-beam's smile, Shall view a black deserted pile.
The morning of thy life was there
Where white man's foot now blights the soil ; And there return'd from chase or war,
Thy sire was wont to share his spoilRevenge his death! I charge thee, boy
And win the warrior's noble joy.
THE INDIAN CAMP.
I stood amidst its solitude! where erst
The mighty of the desert dwelt, ere yet The thunder-cloud of desolation burst
In darkness o'er them; ere their sun had set, And pale-faced strangers from the ocean's strand, Had look’d with evil eye across their fathers' land.
When, like the wild-deer of their own dark woods,
They trod with bounding steps its gloomy maze Fearless and free; or stemm’d the rushing flood
In light canoe; and pausing but to raise Their whoop of terror, rush'd to distant war, With breast and brow still mark'd with many a former scar.
Methinks I see them now, as evening came,
Returning homeward from the lengthen'd chase,
And round their necks fond childhood's soft embrace;
But there was left no relic of them there,
Save that tradition told of one lone spot, Where they had long been sepulchred; it bore
No stone, no monument, that they might not Be all forgotten; but the forest bough, In aged strength bent down above each mouldering brow.
The gushing stream beside whose limpid waves
They oft had Aung them when the chase was o'er, Or paused amid its hurrying course to lave
Their thirsty lips, and heated brows, of yore, Still rushes nigh them with its shining waves, But pours them only round their silent graves.