The Emigrant's Dying Child.

Father, I'm hungered! give me bread;

Wrap close my shivering form!

Cold blows the wind around my head,

And wildly beats the storm.

Protect me from the angry sky;

I shrink beneath its wrath,

And dread this torrent rushing by,

Which intercepts our path.

Father, these California skies,

You said, were bright and bland —

Bu where, to-night, my pillow lies,

Is this the golden land?

’Tis well my little sister sleeps,

Or else she too would grieve;

But only see how still she keeps —

She has not stirred, since eve.

I'll kiss her, and perhaps she'll speak;

She'll kiss me hack, I know;

— Oh! father, only touch her cheek.

’tis cold as very snow.

Father, you do not shed a tear,

Yet little Jane has died;

— Oh! promise, when you leave me here,

To lay me by her side!

And when you pass this torrent cold,

We're come so far to see.

And you go on, beyond, for gold,

Oh think of Jane and me.

Father, I'm weary! rest my head

Upon thy bosom warm —

Cold blows the wind around my head,

And wildly beats the storm.

– Published in The Union Sentinel, Osceola, Iowa, Saturday, October 17, 1862, p. 1