Classic Poem

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 sweeping by,
Which intercepts our path.
Father! These California skies,
You said, were bright and bland —
But where, tonight, 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 back 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've come so far to see,
And you go on beyond, for gold,
O think of Jane and me.