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THE CHEROKEE MOTHER
by Lydia Huntley Sigourney
Ye bid us hence. these vales are dear,
To infant hope, to patriot pride,
These streamlets tunefuel to our ear,
Where our light shallops peaceful glide.
Beneath yon consectrated mounds
Our fathers' treasur'd ashes rest,
Our hands have till'd these corn-clad ground,
Our children's birth these home have blest,
Here, on our sould a Saviour's love
First beam'd with renovating ray,
Why should we from these haunts remove?
But still you warn us hence away.
Child, ask not where! I cannot tell,
Save where wide wastes uncultur'd spread,
Where unknown waters fiercely roll,
And savage monsters howling tread;
Where no blest Chruch with hallow'd train,
Nor hymns of praise, nor voice of prayer,
Like angels soothe the wanderer's pain;
Ask me no more. I know not where.
Go seek thy Sire. The anguish charm
That shades his brow like frowning wrath,
Divide the burden from his arem,
And gird him for his pilgrim-path.
Come, moaning babe! Thy mothers arms'
Shall bear thee on our weary course,
Shall be thy shield from midnight harms,
And baleful dews, and tempests hoarse.
