THE WESTERN EMIGRANT. 177
And setting down the basket that contain 'd His noon-repast, look'd upward to his face With sweet, confiding smile.
" See, dearest, see,
That bright-wing'd paroquet, and hear the song Of yon gay red-bird, echoing thro' the trees, Making rich music. Didst 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 then 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 rising storm Spake bitter things. His weary children slept, And he, with head declin'd, sat listening long To the swollen 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 halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
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