O, tell me, pretty river!
Whence do thy waters flow?
And whither art thou roaming,
So pensive and so slow?
My birthplace was the mountain, My nurse, the April showers; My cradle was a fountain,
O'er curtained by wild flowers.
"One morn I ran away,
A madcap, hoyden rill—
And many a prank that day
I played adown the hill!
“And then, ’mid meadowy banks,
I flirted with the flowers,
That stooped, with glowing lips,
To woo me to their bowers.
"But these bright scenes are o'er, And darkly flows my wave,
I hear the ocean's roar,
And there must be my grave!"
We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled-we're all at home:
To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we're found:
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot :
For once be every care forgot :
Let gentle Peace assert her power,
And kind Affection rule the hour:
We're all-all here.
Some are away—the dead ones dear,
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guiltless mirth,
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in, and thinned our little band:
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank, lingering, day by day;
The quiet graveyard-some lie there-
And cruel Ocean has his share-
E'en they-the dead-though dead, so dear;
Fond Memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view,
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remembered face appears!
We see them as in times long past:
From each to each kind looks are cast:
We hear their words, their smiles behold;
They're round us as they were of old—
We are all here.
We are all here!
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear,
This may not long of us be said:
Soon must we join the gathered dead :
And by the hearth we now sit round,
Some other circle will be found.
O! then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
"We're all—all here!”
An axe rang sharply mid those forest shades
Which from creation toward the sky had towered
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
Fall, how the firm earth groans.
The mighty river, on whose breast we sailed,
So many days, on towards the setting sun?
Our own Connecticut, compared to that,
Was but a creeping stream." "Father, the
That by our door went singing, where I launched
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 nurtured 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 towards her sire,
And, setting down the basket that contained
His noon repast, looked upwards to his face
With sweet, confiding smile. "See, dearest, see,
That bright-winged 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
Did make me joyful, as I went to tend
My snowdrops. 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 declined, sat listening long
To the swoln waters of the Illinois,
Dashing against their shores.
"Wife? did I see thee brush away a tear? 'T was even so. Thy heart was with the halls Of thy nativity. Their sparkling lights, Carpets, and sofas, and admiring guests,
Befit thee better than these rugged walls,
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