[About the year 1842 a party of stockmen, several of whom were afterwards hanged for the crime, made a wholesale slaughter of a small tribe of defenceless blacks; one woman only, with her infant, escaped from the murderers.] Still farther would I fly, my child, To make thee safer yet, From the unsparing white man, With his dread hand murder-wet! I'll bear thee on as I have borne With stealthy steps wind-fleet, But the dark night shrouds the forest, And thorns are in my feet. O moan not! I would give this braid -- Thy father's gift to me -- But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. Ah! Spring not to his name -- no more To glad us may he come! -- He is smouldering into ashes Beneath the blasted gum! All charred and blasted by the fire The white man kindled there, And fed with our slaughtered kindred Till heaven-high went its glare! O moan not! I would give this braid -- Thy father's gift to me -- But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. And but for thee, I would their fire Had eaten me as fast! Hark! Hark! I hear his death-cry Yet lengthening up the blast! But no -- when that we should fly, On the roaring pyre flung bleeding -- I saw thy father die! O moan not! I would give this braid -- Thy father's gift to me -- But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. No more shall his loud tomahawk Be plied to win our cheer, Or the shining fish-pools darken Beneath his shadowing spear; The fading tracks of his fleet foot Shall guide not as before, And the mountain-spirits mimic His hunting call no more! O moan not! I would give this braid -- Thy father's gift to me -- But for a single palmful Of water now for thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MY INCONSTANT MISTRESS by THOMAS CAREW SONNET: 64 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY by WILLIAM SHENSTONE FATHERHOOD by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING IDYLL 7. OF HYACINTHUS by BION HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 15 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |