Like the sweet perfume of a bright young rose,
To mingle with the skies from whence it came.
Oh! in that hour, my child, thy lost of earth,
Did not a thought of thy poor father’s love
Soften the anguish of thy parting soul,
And were not thy dear little arms outstretched
To meet his fond caress!
Thou sleepest, child,
Where the Missouri rolls its wild, dark waves,
And I have never gazed upon thy grave.