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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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I.
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II.
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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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90

THE DYING POET TO HIS CHILD.

Save me, O God, for the waters have come in unto my soul.—
Psalms, 69; 1.

The ball that wounds the mated dove,
Inflicts but little pain;
But fortune stabbed by blighted love,
Must leave the victim slain!
The storm that wrings the towering oak,
May crush it long to lie;
But Fate can wield a keener stroke—
My little babe, good-by!
The careless foot may crush the worm,
And feel no inward pang;
But he that tramps the adder's form,
May dread each poisoned fang!
And he that trusts the broken reed,
Shall feel it pierce and try
The heart that must forever bleed—
My little babe, good-by!
As dew-drops pure and chaste as snow
In falling may be changed;
So, hearts oft chided—racked by wo—
Will soon become estranged!
The dog that meets with constant blows
Will shun his master's eye;
And snap the hand that food bestows—
My little babe, good-by!
91

Thy years are not enough to know
The sorrows that await,—
In friendship's garb doth envy go
To haunt thee long and late!
Then task the vows that men may give,
As future years roll nigh,
For I am now too sick to live—
My little babe, good-by!
And though mine eyes may never see
Thy face on earth, my love!
Yet, God will fix some plan for me
To meet my child above!
This consolation soothes my plaint,
And cancels every sigh;
Or else my heart would burst or faint—
My little babe, good-by!
And now upon life's stormy sea
My weary barque sails on,
But Death shall soon blow down the tree
That stands on earth alone!
And now dark visions intercept
My soul from every eye!
But all is done—as Jacob wept—
My little babe, good-by!
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