|
The
Indian Boy with His Father's Bow
"I
look on the bow that my father bent,
And I know the ways where the warrior went.
I remember the flash of the chieftain's eye;
When he heard the whoop of the foeman nigh!
I can see the fall of that stately head
On the dauntless breast, when its blood was shed;
And I bear in my heart the charge that hung,
To avenge his death, on the faltering tongue!
"My hand is as firm to bend the bow;
My foot through the forest as fleet to go;
I can aim my dart with as sure an eye;
And I am as ready as he to die!
My spirit is burning with thirst to meet
Our ancient foe-for revenge is sweet.
Lo! onward I go, and my father's shade
Shall be at my side, till the debt is paid!"
He leaps, and is gone, like the bounding deer;
But not like her, from the hound and spear.
He flies to his death-he has met the dart;
And 'tis drinking the blood of that fearless heart!
But it came too late, for his dying ear
The curse of his falling foe can hear-
The arrow was sped, which brings him low,
By the hand of the son, from the father's bow!
|
