Analysis of A cry from an indian wife
My forest brave, my Red-skin love, farewell;
We may not meet to-morrow; who can tell
What mighty ills befall our little band,
Or what you'll suffer from the white man's hand?
Here is your knife! I thought 'twas sheathed for aye.
No roaming bison calls for it to-day;
No hide of prairie cattle will it maim;
The plains are bare, it seeks a nobler game:
'Twill drink the life-blood of a soldier host.
Go; rise and strike, no matter what the cost.
Yet stay. Revolt not at the Union Jack,
Nor raise Thy hand against this stripling pack
Of white-faced warriors, marching West to quell
Our fallen tribe that rises to rebel.
They all are young and beautiful and good;
Curse to the war that drinks their harmless blood.
Curse to the fate that brought them from the East
To be our chiefs--to make our nation least
That breathes the air of this vast continent.
Still their new rule and council is well meant.
They but forget we Indians owned the land
From ocean unto ocean; that they stand
Upon a soil that centuries agone
Was our sole kingdom and our right alone.
They never think how they would feel to-day,
If some great nation came from far away,
Wresting their country from their hapless braves,
Giving what they gave us--but wars and graves.
Then go and strike for liberty and life,
And bring back honour to your Indian wife.
Your wife? Ah, what of that, who cares for me?
Who pities my poor love and agony?
What white-robed priest prays for your safety here,
As prayer is said for every volunteer
That swells the ranks that Canada sends out?
Who prays for vict'ry for the Indian scout?
Who prays for our poor nation lying low?
None--therefore take your tomahawk and go.
My heart may break and burn into its core,
But I am strong to bid you go to war.
Yet stay, my heart is not the only one
That grieves the loss of husband and of son;
Think of the mothers o'er the inland seas;
Think of the pale-faced maiden on her knees;
One pleads her God to guard some sweet-faced child
That marches on toward the North-West wild.
The other prays to shield her love from harm,
To strengthen his young, proud uplifted arm.
Ah, how her white face quivers thus to think,
Your tomahawk his life's best blood will drink.
She never thinks of my wild aching breast,
Nor prays for your dark face and eagle crest
Endangered by a thousand rifle balls,
My heart the target if my warrior falls.
O! coward self I hesitate no more;
Go forth, and win the glories of the war.
Go forth, nor bend to greed of white men's hands,
By right, by birth we Indians own these lands,
Though starved, crushed, plundered, lies our nation low...
Perhaps the white man's God has willed it so
Scheme | AABBCDEEFGHHAIJKLLMNBBOODDPPQQROSTUUVVWWOOXXYYZZ1 1 2 2 3 3 WW4 4 VV |
---|---|
Poetic Form | Tetractys (20%) |
Metre | 110111111 1111110111 11010110101 1111010111 1111111111 1101011111 1111010111 0111110101 1101110101 1101110101 1101110101 1111011101 11110010111 10101110110 1111010001 1101111101 1101111101 111011110101 1101111100 1111010111 11011100101 1101010111 010111001 110110010101 1101111111 1111011101 1011011101 1011111101 1101110001 0111111001 1111111111 111110100 1111111101 1111110001 1101110011 1111101001 11110110101 11111001 1111010111 1111111111 1111110101 1101110011 1101010011 1101110101 1101111111 1101010111 0101110111 1101111001 110111111 110111111 1101111101 1111110101 0101010101 11010111001 110111011 1101010101 1111111111 11111100111 11110110101 0101111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 2,652 |
Words | 489 |
Sentences | 29 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 60 |
Lines Amount | 60 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 2,061 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 487 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on May 02, 2023
- 2:28 min read
- 188 Views
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"A cry from an indian wife" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 19 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/12556/a-cry-from-an-indian-wife>.
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