Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DEATH OF THE EMIGRANT, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The way is long,' the father said
Last Line: "the fatherless are mine."
Subject(s): Death; Immigrants; Dead, The; Emigrant; Emigration; Immigration


"THE way is long," the father said,
While through the western wild he sped,
With eager, searching eye;
"Cheer ye, my babes," the mother cried,
And drew them closer to her side,
As frown'd the evening sky.

Just then, within the thicket rude,
A log-rear'd cabin's roof they view'd,
And its low shelter blest,
On the rough floor, their simple bed,
In weariness and haste they spread,
And laid them down to rest.

On leathern hinge, the doors were hung,
Undeck'd with glass the casement swung
The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall;
And here they found their only home,
Who once had rul'd the spacious dome,
And pac'd the pictur'd hall.
But hearts with pure affections warm,
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm,
Did in that cell abide,
And there the wife her husband cheer'd,
And there her little ones she rear'd,
And there in hope she died.

Still the lone man his toil pursued,
While 'neath his roof so low and rude,
A gentle daughter rose,
As peering through some rifted rock,
Or blooming on a broken stock,
The blushing sweet briar grows.

With tireless hand, the board she spread,
The Holy Book at evening read,
And when, with serious air,
He saw her bend so sweetly mild
And lull to sleep the moaning child,
He bless'd her in his prayer.

But stern disease his footsteps staid,
And down the woodman's axe he laid,
The fever-flame was high;
No more the forest fear'd his stroke,
He fell, as falls the rugged oak,
Beneath the whirlwind's eye.
His youngest girl, his fondest pride,
His baby, when the mother died,
How desolate she stands!
While gazing on his death struck eye
His kneeling sons with anguish cry,
And clasp his clenching hands.

Who hastes his throbbing head to hold?
Who bows to chafe his temples cold
In beauty's opening prime?
That blessed daughter meek of heart,
Who for his sake a matron's part
Had borne before her time.

That gasp, that groan, 'tis o'er, 'tis o'er,
The manly breast must heave no more.
The heart no longer pine:
Oh, thou, who feed'st the raven's nest,
Confirm once more thy promise blest,
"The fatherless are mine."





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