The Indian Mother To Her Son
Thy foot is on thy father's grave,
Thine eye is on thy father's foes,
Here sleeps what once was free and brave!
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!
How Indian sons in memory nurse
Their dying sires’ revengeful curse.
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 spoil—
Revenge his death! I charge thee, boy—
And win the warrior's noble joy.
poem by Elizabeth Margaret Chandler from Poetical Works (1836)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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