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.