html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }The Indian whoop is heard without,
Within the Indian arrow lies;
There's horror in that fiendish shout,
There's death where'er that arrow flies.
Two trembling women there alone,
Alone to guard a feeble child;
What shield, O God! is round them thrown
Amid that scene of peril wild?
Thy Book upon the table there
Reveals at once from whence could flow
The strength to dash aside despair,
The meekness to abide the blow.
Already, half resign'd, she kneels,
And half imploring, kneels the mother,
Awhile angelic courage steels
The gentle nature of the other.
They thunder on the oaken door,
They pierce the air with furious yell,
And soon that plume upon the floor
May grace some painted warrior well.
Oh, why cannot one stalwart arm
But wield the brand that hangeth by?
And snatch the noble girl from harm,
Who heedeth not the hellish cry?
A shot! the savage leader falls—
The maiden's eye which aim'd the gun—
That eye, whose deadly aim appals,
Is tearful when its task is done.
He falls and straight with baffled cries,
His tribesmen fly in wild dismay;
And now, beneath the evening skies,
That Household may in safety pray.