THB INDIAN MOTHER. 49 



Her palm-built hut her once blest home 



Rose brightly on her mind ; 

 With woman's skill she 'scap'd her guards, 



That happy home to find. 



In vain in vain by bloodhounds trac'd 



Through forest and o'er plain, 

 Herself her little ones were found 



Once more to fly in vain. 



They stretched her on the granite rock, 



They scourg'd her writhing frame 

 And scornful jest and mockery 



Were lavish'd on her shame. 



The mother's rock was spotted o'er 



With drops of crimson blood ; 

 Her piercing shrieks her anguish'd groans 



Rose wildly o'er the flood. 



Oh, Heaven ! were these thy messengers, 



Man's sinful soul to save ; 

 Whose piety had led them forth 



To cross the boundless wave? 



They told of love of charity 



Yet treated men as slaves : 

 They made that paradise a hell 



Thick strown with tear-worn graves. 



No : no ! thy heavenly mission breath'd 



Of joy, of hope, of love : 

 Of holy calm, of happiness, 



Of endless peace above. 



How sacred is a mother's love ! 



Yet savage hearts are found 

 Would strive to break the life-link'd chain, 



By which her soul is bound 



Would burst the rivet break the spell 



Which clasps a mother's heart ; 

 The heart may break but mother's love 



Of life itself is part. 



They dragg'd her from her little ones, 



Though fast they weeping clung 

 Though drops of tear-chok'd agony 



Upon her forehead hung. 



Far far away they carried her 



Long sail'd, the victim-bark ; 

 They left her 'midst unforded streams, 



'Midst swamps and forests dark. 



Yet scarce had night commenc'd its reign 



She broke her bonds and fled 

 She plung'd 'midst dangers yet undar'd, 



'Midst scenes of fear and dread. 



M.M. No. 1. H 



