Lydia Huntley Sigourney

An axe rang sharply ’mid those forest shades Which from creation toward the skies had tower’d In unshorn beauty. There, with vigorous arm Wrought a bold emigrant, and by his side His little son, with question and response, Beguiled the toil. ‘Boy, thou hast never seen Such glorious trees. Hark, 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 toward the setting sun? Our own Connecticut, compar’d to that, Was but a creeping stream.’ ‘Father, the brook That by our door went singing, where I launch’d My tiny boat, with my young playmates round, When school was o’er, is dearer far to me, Than all these bold, broad waters. To my eye They are as strangers. And those little trees My mother nutur’d in the garden bound, Of our first home, from whence the fragrant peach Hung in its ripening gold, were fairer sure, Than 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 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 through 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 Still made 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 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 heard was with the halls Of thy 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 mine ear that echoes 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, reassur’d his soul That 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 play Such pranks when reason slumbers, tireless wrought Their will with him. Up rose the thronging mart Of 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 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 rov’d ’Mid the loved scenery of his native land.

Morn on her rosy couch awoke, Enchantment led the hour, And mirth and music drank the dews That freshen’d Beauty’s flower, Then from her bower of deep delight, I heard a young girl sing, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’ The Sun in noon-day heat rose high, And on the heaving breast, I saw a weary pilgrim toil Unpitied and unblest, Yet still in trembling measures flow’d Forth from a broken string, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’ ’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew, ’Mid agony severe, While there a willing spirit went Home to a glorious sphere, Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread The waiting Angel’s wing, ‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry, For ’tis a holy thing.’

‘How can the red men be forgotten, while so many of our states and territories, bays, lakes, and rivers, are indelibly stamped by names of their giving?’ Ye say they all have passed away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave; That ’mid the forests where they roamed There rings no hunter shout, But their name is on your waters, Ye may not wash it out. ’Tis where Ontario’s billow Like Ocean’s surge is curled, Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake The echo of the world. Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tribute from the west, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia’s breast. Ye say their cone-like cabins, That clustered o’er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale, But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore. Old Massachusetts wears it, Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it, Amid his young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse Through all her ancient caves. Wachuset hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart; Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust, Your mountains build their monument, Though ye destroy their dust. Ye call these red-browned brethren The insects of an hour, Crushed like the noteless worm amid The regions of their power; Ye drive them from their father’s lands, Ye break of faith the seal, But can ye from the court of Heaven Exclude their last appeal? Ye see their unresisting tribes, With toilsome step and slow, On through the trackless desert pass A caravan of woe; Think ye the Eternal’s ear is deaf? His sleepless vision dim? Think ye the soul’s blood may not cry From that far land to him?

Death found strange beauty on that cherub brow, And dash’d it out. – There was a tint of rose O’er cheek and lip; – he touch’d the veins with ice, And the rose faded. – Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wistful tenderness, – a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which Innocence Alone can wear. – With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of their curtaining lids Forever. – There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother’s ear, Charming her even to tears. – The spoiler set His seal of silence. – But there beam’d a smile, So fix’d and holy from that marble brow, – Death gazed and left it there; – he dared not steal The signet-ring of Heaven.