48 THE INDIAN MOTHER. 



With bloody sword, with waving torch, 

 With slaughter drunk or mad, 



Their leader urges on the fight, 

 In priestly garments clad. 



Oh God ! was this thy chosen one ? 



Was this thy servant good ? 

 Whose dark, relentless bigotry, 



Would plant thy word in blood ? 



With hurried speed, in terror wild, 



With retroverted eye, 

 The Indian mother rushes forth, 



With rapid steps to fly. 



But not alone the mother came 



Two children on her hung ; 

 A third dragg'd onwards by her side, 



Within her tunic slung. 



Vain vain her flight ; far fleeter steps 



Are pressing close behind : 

 Again the same wild shout arose, 



" Kill ! Kill ! or firmly bind." 



Seiz'd, bound and with her little ones, 



Allow'd no sign, no word, 

 Their cries fell bitter on her soul, 



Her inmost spirit stirr'd. 



Far down the Orinoco's stream, 



Fetter' d, both hand and foot, 

 Far from her happy sun-bright home, 



Far from her palm-built hut 



Away they sail'd hope sunk it died 

 Onward the light bark sweeps; 



When night's dark gloom o'ershadows them, 

 Something beside her creeps. 



It is her child her youngest one, 



Seeking its mother's breast, 

 On which to lay its wearied head, 



Its wonted place of rest. 



Fast were her hands she could not clasp 



The cherub but it crept 

 Close and more close it threw its arms 



About her neck, and slept. 



Night pass'd morn dawn'd from fetters freed, 



She moves her limbs at last, 

 Her trembling, bleeding, tortur'd arms, 



Are round her darling's cast, 



Watch'd, guarded day and night, she dwelt, 



Amidst her captors stern, 

 Who strove by blows, by stripes, by chains, 



Their faith to make her learn. 



