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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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VI.
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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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XII.
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XIII.
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XIV.
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XV.
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XVI.
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XVII.
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XVIII.
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XIX.
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XX.
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XXI.
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XXII.
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XXIII.
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XXIV.
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XXV.
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XXVI.
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XXVII.
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XXVIII.
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XXIX.
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XXX.
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XXXI.
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XXXII.
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XXXIII.

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FAITH.

Faith is the flower that blooms unseen
By mountains of immortal green—
A hoped-for harvest in the skies,
In which the reaper never dies—
A tree to which the power is given
To lift its branches into heaven;
And from whose boughs of gorgeous fruit
A loftier tree shall take its root.
Lord! we are grafted into thine,
When broken off from Adam's vine;
And so, from that degenerate tree,
We grow into the life of thee!
For, by the prunings of thy word,
Are we then purged into the Lord;
And like Mount Zion we shall stand
The Temples of our native land.
Lord! if the stars should take their slight,
And vanish from the halls of night;
And if the morning should appear,
And vanish from the evening near;
67

And if the rivers should run dry,
And every flower that decks them die;
And if the world should cease to be—
I would not lose my trust in thee.
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