Poems (Douglas)/The Emigrant Child to his Parent

by Sarah Parker Douglas

The Emigrant Child to his Parent.

Father, come home! come, the deep sea retracing,
 We'll seek our cottage in our own green vale,
Where scarlet pea and moss-rose bough embracing,
 Creep o'er its walls and scent the balmy gale;
My young companions, with their happy faces,
 Are bounding o'er the grassy meads at play;
They seek me in our cunning hiding-places,
 Where spreading foliage intercept each ray.

I hear their glee, I see their glad brows glancing
 In the warm sunbeams, as they tread the sand,
Loud rings their footsteps o'er the pebbles prancing,
 As on they march, a mimic warrior band.
They've cut them twigs from off the yielding bushes.
 From which their kerchief banners float in air,
Green helmets wove of the marsh's rushes,
 O'ershades each laughing brow—would I were there!

Would I were with them, by the sounding river,
 Along whose banks methinks they're sporting now.
Deep in the glen, where beams in sparkle quiver
 Through the stirred foliage of each shaken bough.
In noisy groups I see my playmates thronging
 Near giant trees, in summer pomp arrayed,
Whilst echo, their wild revelry prolonging,
 With joyous voices fills each verdant shade.

Father, come home!—the radiant sun is streaming
 Through the leaf-circled lattice on our floor,
While little sister, with her bright hair gleaming
 In golden glory, s playing at the door
I see the rose leaves light upon her tresses,
 Borne by the breeze from off our cottage wall,
As she, all happiness, bestows caresses,
 Talks to, and lullabies her waxen doll.

And, Oh! I hear my gentle mother singing
 The happy lays she used so sweet to sing,
Whilst the deep notes are through the chambers ringing
 Of my caged warbler of the yellow wing.
All in our dear old home is joy and gladness,
 Then wherefore should we linger longer here?
Alas! you shake your head again in sadness;
 Again there glistens in your eye a tear.

Ah! then, 'tis certain 'twas no midnight dreaming,
 No vision which in slumber rose to view,
Those doleful coffins and pale faces gleaming,
 White shrouds and silence were, alas! too true.
My mother and the little ones are sleeping
 Far, far away, beneath the lonely sod,
But we shall meet them where there is no weeping,
 Nor grief, nor darkness, in the land of God.