THE EMIGRANTS.

“Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.”—Goldsmith.

Borne o’er the bosom of the trackless main, Far from the shore they loved, and left with pain; Compell’d, by hard necessity, to rove, And quit those scenes of early bliss and love, That close endeared them to their humble shed: But those endearments now, alas! are fled: The straw-thatched roof, whose curling smoke was seen; The shady lane, and oft-frequented green, Where many a gambol drew the village throng At eve, when old and young their sports prolong; Graceful ’bove trees the ancient spire uprose, In calm seclusion, emblem of repose; The purling brook, that turned the cotter’s mill; The dark-robed wood, and softly swelling hill, From whence low bleatings murmured thro’ the vale, And rustic’s joy came o’er the passing gale. Such mem’ry pictured in her loveliest dress; How keen their anguish, words but faint express, As wafted hence their sorrowing tears they flow, Their trials real, and unfeigned their woe; Lone wand’ring exiles, doomed in grief to part, And leave their country with an aching heart, To far Australia, or Van Diemen’s shore, A num’rous band, those regions wild explore; Or wide dispersed, Canadia’s woods they range, The lonely settlers of the forest strange. Before their gaze the swelling distance shows Mountains o’ermantled in eternal snows; Far as the eye can stretch huge forests rise, Or dreary moors, or plains of other skies; A rugged soil, that claims enduring toil, That oft the labourer doth resist and foil. The Emigrants thus feel the curse renewed, Ere yields the stubborn earth, by toil subdued; Perchance their little group of children round Join in the task—young tillers of the ground; A world before them spread,—a houseless band. Such are the wanderers of a foreign land. And should their enterprise succeed, how blest The prospect “home-bound,” to return and rest; Spend the sweet close of their remaining days, Their setting sun descend in peaceful rays, Once more revisit their own happier clime, With feelings stronger felt by lapse of time; Review the spot they sorrowing left behind, When misery drove them outcasts to the wind: The same delightful scenes engage the eye, Their only wish is there at last to die; The same engaging charms allure them still, The sloping meadows and the rippling rill; The cheerful woodland pipe of joyous swain, The swinging sign-post and the stile remain, That they so often climbed, when ruddy youth, Happy and heedless of life’s sober truth, Enjoyed the present through the live-long day, Nor gave a thought to-morrow in their play; Such lovely scenes their influence sweet o’ercast, Their wand’rings softened, and their hardships past, Whose fondest wish, their chequered troubles o’er, To Albion’s shore return, nor migrate more.