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Nacoochee ; or, the beautiful star, with other Poems

Chivers, T. H. (1809-1858)

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DEDICATED TO MY PRECIOUS MOTHER,
  
TO IDEALON.
  
NACOOCHEE;
  
THE DEATH OF TIME.
  
THE SOARING SWAN,
  
THE LAST WRECK.
  
HOLY LOVE.
  
THE DYING POET.
  
THE DYING DOVE.
  
THE DYING BEAUTY.
  
TO A CHINA TREE,
  
TO MY MOTHER.
  
EVENING.
  
MAN'S LIFE.
  
THE VOICE OF THE EXILE
  
SONG OF ADORATION TO GOD.
  
FAITH.
  
SACRED SONG.
  
MORNING HYMN.
  
EVENING HYMN.
  
HYMN TO THE DEITY.
  
DRINK AND AWAY.
  
SONG OF THE DYING SOLDIER.
  
TO INEZ DE GEORGIA,
  
SONG.
  
TO LITTLE LIZA IN HEAVEN.
  
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
  
BURIAL OF THE INDIAN CHILD.
  
[SONG. With my head upon thy breast]
  
THE HARPER.
  
[SONG. Come take all my jewels and lie down, my dove]
  
[SONG. Oh! come away, my gentle one]
  
[SONG. Blessed of heaven! thy home shall be]
  
TO MY MOTHER.
  
THE DYING POET TO HIS CHILD.
  
ODE TO THE MISSISSIPPI.
  
TO IRENE.
  
THE MOTHER CHIDING HER FIRST BORN.
  
[SONG. Tell him that days are past]
  
[SONG. Tell her she need not weep]
  
TO MY MOTHER.
  
HYMN TO DEATH.
  
TO MY SISTER,
  
[SONG. Though the rose of my Eden is blasted]
  
BREATHINGS OF THE SOUL.
  
STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
  
SONG OF THE POET TO HIS HARP.
  
SONG OF THE MAIDS OF TEXAS.
  
THE MOTHER'S SONG
  
NEAH-EMATHLAH.
  
TO MY HARP.
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MALAVOLTI;
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III.
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IV.
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V.
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VII.
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VIII.
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IX.
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X.
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XI.
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XIII.
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XV.
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XVIII.
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XIX.
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XX.
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XXI.
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XXIII.
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XXVII.
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XXVIII.
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XXX.
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XXXI.
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XXXII.
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XXXIII.

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109

THE MOTHER'S SONG

AT THE GRAVE OF HER CHILD.

As the savage makes his tread
In the mire that turns to stone,
That shall last when he is dead,
And his children all are gone!
As the foot-print shall be there,
When the type shall be apart—
So the waves of Time shall wear
Thee but deeper in my heart!
If the vaulted void be nigh,
And you cannot hear its moan,
Let the tempest sweep it by,
And the cavern may be known!
As the storm can only lead
To the sunless depths below,
So, the region of the dead
May be gathered from this wo!
As the miner takes the stone
In its brightness from the earth,
And preserves it as his own
In his casket for its worth;
As he wears it on his breast
As he took it from the sod,
So, my baby takes her rest
In the bosom of her God.
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