THE ARCHERS

Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skin

Red from the smouldering heat of hate within,

Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood —

As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food —

War paint adorning breast and thigh and face,

Armed with the ancient weapons of his race,

A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung,

And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue,—

Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe,

And sighting him strings silently his bow,

Takes his unerring aim, and straight and true

The arrow cuts in flight the forest through,

A flint which never made for mark and missed,

And finds the heart of his antagonist.

Thus has he warred and won since time began,

Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.

Ungarmented, save for a web that lies

In fleecy folds across his impish eyes,

A tiny archer takes his way intent

On mischief, which is his especial bent.

Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filled

With arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilled

From all the roses brides have ever worn

Since that first wedding out of Eden born.

Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smile

This youthful hunter hides a heart of guile;

His arrows aimed at random fly in quest

Of lodging-place within some blameless breast.

But those he wounds die happily, and so

Blame not young Cupid with his dart and bow:

Thus has he warred and won since time began,

Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.