The Emigrants' Return

They had traveled many a weary mile,And now they stood once moreBeside their old ancestral home,Their journeyings well nigh o'er:Then rose each dear, familiar scene,Before their earnest eyes,Clad, as they oft had pictured them,In hues of paradise.

Closely the woodbine clung aboveThe lowly oaken door,Like young affection clasping roundThe old and feeble poor:The rose still blushed her life away,In listening to a dream,And the sunbeam lay upon the hill,The shadow on the stream.

The change that maketh food for grief,And seemeth everywhere,The autumn to affection's leaf,Had left no shadow there:The same spring beauty lingered round,On each familiar spot;Man leaves his dwelling place for aye,But Nature heedeth not.

So thought the weary emigrants,As, pausing on the hill,They watched the scene that lay below,So peaceable and still.And they wondered if the kindred, leftSo many months before,Still cherished them within their heartsAs warmly as of yore.

A glad voice swelled along the hill,Ending all thought of pain,As loved ones hurried forth to greetThe wanderers again.And soon warm hands were clasping hands,And hearts ran o'er with joy,And eyes that lacked an object long,At length found full employ.

But when they asked for Emily,Each kindred eye grew dim;And every heart drooped mournfully,While filling to the brim;And suddenly, amidst the group,A spell was thrown around,As if the lips had given voiceTo some forbidden sound.

"We come, but bring not Emily,"At length a mourner said;"Within the far-off wilderness,Her silent form is laid.And the dirge that swelled above her grave,In the hour of our distress,Still fills the forest with its toneOf mournful tenderness.

"Yon sweet-brier flings its fragrant breathAround upon the air;To us it brings the thought of death,For once her form was there.And the low sweet music of her voice,So gentle, her ownPossessing, e'en from infancy,A melancholy tone!

"One eye, you may remember well,The last we ever spentAt this old homestead, ere to seekAnother home we went;When hearts were full, and eyes were dim,And tears were on the cheek;And we felt the utter agonyWe would, but could not, speak."

She was the calmest one of all,And yet the saddest too;For her cheek was pale, though not a tearWas in her eye of blue.And the sweet expression of her face,So sad, yet so resigned,—It seemed, though she indeed went forth,Her spirit stayed behind.

"On to the far-off wildernessWe journeyed day by day,Yet her voice grew sadder as we went,And her step less light and gay.In vain the prairie-flower wooedHer steps to turn aside;The waters rolled, she heeded notThe mutterings of their pride.

"At length we rested by the dark'Interminable wood,'That, like a ready armèd host,In serried columns stood.And we hoped that rest and tendernessWould free her from her pain,And from its mournful memories winHer spirit back again.

"But her cheek grew whiter day by day,More shadowy her form,As the doomed lily pines awayWhen summer-skies are warm.And still, as paler grew her cheek,More brightly shone her eye,Until the sharp conviction came,That she would shortly die!

Beside the murmuring forest-streamWe laid her down to rest,And we placed the mould above her there,And the turf upon her breast.And we hunted through the shadowy depthsOf the wide, dark wilderness;In search of pale blue violets,Our lost one's sleep to bless.

"Of these we wrote her epitaph,And watered them with tears;For we buried in that lonely graveThe hoarded love of years.It was meet that we should greatly grieveWhen she, our gentlest one,Lay in that tranquil wilderness.To sleep so long alone.

"We come, but bring not Emily!"She paused awhile, and said,"Beneath the lofty forest-trees,Her wasted form we laid.And daily, since we said farewell,Our grief has sorer grown;It seemed less hard to see her die,Than to leave her there alone."