The Flooded Hut of The Mississippi

On the wide-rolling river, at eve, set the sun,
And the long-toiling day of the woodman was done,
And he flung down the axe that had felled the huge tree,
And his own little daughter he placed on his knee;
She looked up, with smiles, at a dovecot o’er head–
Where, circling around, flew the pigeons she fed,
And more fondly the sire clasp’d his child to his breast–
As he kiss’d her–and called her the bird of his nest.

The wide-rolling river rose high in the night,
The wide-rolling river, at morn, show’d its might,
For it leap’d o’er its bounds, and invaded the wood
Where the humble abode of the wood-cutter stood.
All was danger around, and no aid was in view,
And higher and higher the wild waters grew,
And the child–looking up at the dovecot in air,
Cried, “Father–oh father, I wish we were there!”

“My child,” said the father, “that dovecot of thine
Should enliven our faith in the Mercy Divine;
‘Twas a dove that brought Noah the sweet branch of peace,
To show him the anger of Heaven did cease:
Then kneel, my lov’d child, by thy fond father’s side,
And pray that our hut may in safety abide,
And then, from all fear may our bosoms be proof–
While the dove of the deluge is over our roof.”