The Western Emigrant - An Appreciated 1832 Poem

The following Prize Poem is from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney. It deserves to rank with the most finished specimens that have emanated from the same gifted source.

Amid those frest shades that proudly rear'd

Their unshorn beauty toward the favoring skies,

An axe rang sharply, There, with vigorous arm

Wrought a bold emigrant, while by his side

His little son with question and response

Beguiled the toil.

 

By, thou hast never seen

Such glorious trees and when their giant trunks

Fall, how the firm earth groans. Rememberest thou

The mighty river on whose breast we sail'd

So many days on towards the setting sun?

Compared to that, our own Connecticut

Is but a creeping stream."

 

"Father, the brook,

That by our door went singing, when I launch'd

My tiny boat with all the sportive boys,

When school was o'er, is dearer far to me

Than all these deep broad waters. To my eye

They are as strangers. And those little trees

My mother planted in the garden bound

Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach

Fell in its ripening gold, were fairer sure

Then this dark forest shutting out the day."

 

"What, ho! my little girl," — and with light step

A fairy creature hasted toward her sire,

And setting down the basket that contain'd

The noon's repast, look'd upward to his face

With sweet, confiding smile.

 

"See, dearest, see

Yon bright-winged paroquet, and hear the song

Of the gay red-bird echoing through the trees,

Making rich music. Did'st thou ever hear

In far New England such a mellow tone?"

 

"I had a robin that did take the crumbs

Each night, and morning, and his chirping voice

Did make me joyful, as I went to tend

My snow-drops. I was always laughing there,

In that first home. I should be happier now

Methinks, if I could find among these dells

The same fresh violets,"

 

Slow Night drew on,

And round the rude hut of the Emigrant,

The wrathful spirit of the autumn storm

Spake bitter things. His wearied children slept,

And he, with head declin'd sat listening long

To the swoln waters of the Illinois,

Dashing against their shores. Starting he spake —

 

"Wife I — did I see thee brush away a tear? —

Say, was it so? — Thy heart was with the halls

Of they nativity. Their sparkling lights,

Carpets and sofas, and admiring guests,

Befit thee better than these rugged walls

Of shapeless logs, and this lone hermit home."

 

"No — no! — All was so still around, methought,

Upon my ear that echoed hymn did steal

Which mid the church where erst we paid our vows

So tuneful peal'd. But tenderly thy voice

Dissolv'd the illusion :" — and the gentle smile

Lighting her brow, — the fond caress that sooth'd

Her waking infant, re-assured his soul

That wheresoe'er the pure affections dwell

And strike a healthful root, is happiness.

Placid and grateful, to his rest he sunk, —

 

But dreams, those wild magicians, which do play

Such pranks when Reason slumbers, tireless wrought

Their will with him. Up rose the busy mart

Of his own native city, — roof and spire

All glittering bright, in Fancy's frost-work lay.

Forth came remember'd forms — with curving neck

The steed his boyhood nurtur'd, probably neigh'd —

The favorite dog, exulting round his feet

Frisk'd, with shrill, joyous bark — familiar doors

Flew open — greeting hands with his were link'd

In Friendship's grasp — he heard the keen debate

From congregated haunts, where mind with mind

Doth blend and brighten — and till morning rc'vd

'Mid the lov'd scenery of his father-land.

February 29, 1832. Norwich Courier 10(49): 4. From the Albany Literary Gazette. Also issued in other newspapers.