The Western Emigrant

An ax rang sharply 'mid those forest shadesWhich from creation toward the skies had tower'dIn unshorn beauty.—There, with vigorous armWrought a bold Emigrant, and by his sideHis little son, with question and response,Beguil'd the toil."Boy, thou hast never seenSuch glorious trees. Hark, when their giant trunksFall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thouThe mighty river, on whose breast we sail'dSo many days, on toward the setting sun?Our own Connecticut, compar'd to that,Was but a creeping stream.""Father, the brookThat by our door went singing, where I launch'd

My tiny boat, with my young playmates roundWhen school was o'er, is dearer far to me,Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eyeThey are as strangers. And those little treesMy mother nurtur'd in the garden bound,Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peachHung in its ripening gold, were fairer sureThan this dark forest, shutting out the day."—"What, ho!—my little girl," and with light stepA fairy creature hasted toward her sire,And setting down the basket that contain'dHis noon-repast, look'd upward to his faceWith sweet, confiding smile."See, dearest, see,That bright-wing'd paresquet, and hear the songOf yon gay red-bird, echoing thro' the trees,Making rich music. Didst thou ever hearIn far New-England, such a mellow tone?"—"I had a robin that did take the crumbsEach night and morning, and his chirping voiceDid make me joyful, as I went to tendMy snow-drops. I was always laughing thenIn that first home. I should be happier nowMethinks, if I could find among these dellsThe same fresh violets."Slow night drew on,And round the rude hut of the EmigrantThe wrathful spirit of the rising stormSpake bitter things. His weary children slept,And he, with head declin'd, sat listening longTo the swoln waters of the Illinois,Dashing against their shores.

Starting he spake,—"Wife! did I see thee brush away a tear?'Twas even so. Thy heart was with the hallsOf thy nativity. Their sparkling lights,Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,Befit thee better than these rugged wallsOf shapeless logs, and this lone, hermit home.""No—no. All was so still around, methoughtUpon mine ear that echoed hymn did steal,Which 'mid the Church where erst we paid our vows,So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voiceDissolv'd the illusion."And the gentle smileLighting her brow, the fond caress that sooth'dHer waking infant, reassur'd his soulThat wheresoe'er our best affections dwell,And strike a healthful root, is happiness.Content, and placid, to his rest he sank,But dreams, those wild magicians, that do playSuch pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wroughtTheir will with him.Up rose the thronging martOf his own native city,—roof and spire,All glittering bright, in fancy's frost-work ray.The steed his boyhood nurtur'd proudly neigh'd,The favorite dog came frisking round his feet,With shrill and joyous bark,—familiar doorsFlew open, greeting hands with his were link'dIn friendship's grasp,—he heard the keen debateFrom congregated haunts, where mind with mindDoth blend and brighten,—and till morning rov'dMid the lov'd scenery of his native land.