 | Judith, Esther, and other poems |  |
39
Song of an Indian Mother.
Soft in thy earthy cradle sleep,
Fast falling tears thy bosom steep,
Yet why, my first-born, should I weep
That thou art gone?
The little bird when fledged and grown,
Far from its fostering parent flown,
Must seek a sustenance alone,
And many a thorn,
Fast falling tears thy bosom steep,
Yet why, my first-born, should I weep
That thou art gone?
The little bird when fledged and grown,
Far from its fostering parent flown,
Must seek a sustenance alone,
And many a thorn,
And many a seed of bitter taste
Are in the shady forest placed,
And lovely fruits upon the waste
Fell poisons hide.
Why do the drops that dew thee, flow?
At least, thou never now canst know,
Of treacherous man the wiles and wo
And wounded pride.
Are in the shady forest placed,
And lovely fruits upon the waste
Fell poisons hide.
Why do the drops that dew thee, flow?
At least, thou never now canst know,
Of treacherous man the wiles and wo
And wounded pride.
The springs young buds that blighted lay,
Ere yet the ripening beams of day
Called forth their perfumes, pass away
Like thee my son.
Ah, happy in a doom like this!
While yet thou knewest but the bliss
Of a fond mother's smile and kiss,
Forever gone.
Ere yet the ripening beams of day
Called forth their perfumes, pass away
Like thee my son.
Ah, happy in a doom like this!
While yet thou knewest but the bliss
Of a fond mother's smile and kiss,
Forever gone.
| Judith, Esther, and other poems | |