Here, by the highway, let us stand and note
The long, slow, labouring caravan which takes,
To-day, its westward course. Like moving tents,
The laden wagons pass. Along the road
Some, who remain, collect in wayside groups,
And wave the 'kerchief, uttering heartfelt words
Of cheer; some join the pilgrimage a space,
Walking behind the wains in converse meet,
Speeding the adventurers on. Some, in advance.
Who started earlier on the way, with gaze
Cast frequent back, and leisure, mournful steps
Hold melancholy talk with those whom they,
Perchance, shall see no more. Saddest of these,
Young Amy, leaning on her lover, walks,
Her tears usurping all her powers of speech;
While he, as voluble as spring-time brooks,
Pours in her ear the promise which her hope
Gathers and holds in its securest depths
A few short weeks will soon go by, and then
His steps shall follow to their forest home,
Where thought of separation shall no more
Affright her tender soul. With words like these
He drowns, at last, the saddest of her fears.
On yonder height, where forks the woodland road,
And the old finger-boards with letters pale,
Long washed by storms, direct diverging ways,
The schoolhouse stands, where master Ethan taught,
Now silent as a bee-deserted hive; the shutters closed,
As on a room of death, while chain and lock
Make the lone door secure. There, on her cane,
Beneath the hand-post, stands the Oakland dame
Watching the winding line with curious eye.
When Amy passes she exalts her voice,
Waving a caution-finger as she speaks:
“Remember, lass, the words of Christmas eve!”
And, suddenly, across the young girl's heart
Flashes the whole sad sentence she then heard.
Loud laughs the youth, and bids her hold her peace;
And Amy, trembling as they pass her by,
Hastens her onward steps. Next, following, come
Olivia and Arthur; after these,
Frail Master Ethan, with his pilgrim cane,
Leading the wondering grandchild by the hand;
Then, next, the wagons. First, the well-shod team
Bearing the blacksmith's household; following this,
The wheelwright, full of magisterial pomp,
Directs his steeds, holding himself the centre
And spring of all the movement. One of those,
Chancing in front, who arrogate the lead;
Or, in the rear, is driver—nothing less.
Adverse or fair, the world from one proud point
Is viewed and met; if good, it is his due—
If ill, another's fault; yet ne'er so bad,
But that the saddest half, by skill of his,
Is headed and turned off. The ridden world
Bears many such; and oft obeys the reins,
Which arrogance usurps with shameless hand,
While modest wisdom stands aside, abashed.
There, next, the mason and the cooper come,
Their wives and children from the crowded wain
Peering abroad, with eyes half smiles and tears;
And, in communion close, the parson's team
And Baldwin's bring the rear. Anon they gain
The summit of the height, and turn to gaze;
And, gazing, heave the sigh, and breathe adieu,
While many a rough hand feels the farewell grasp.
At length the long leave-taking is all o'er;
The train descends; and lo, the happy vale
Is closed from sight beyond the mournful hill,
And all the West, before the onward troop,
Lies in the far unknown. As goes a bride,
With pain and joy alternate in her breast,
To find a home within the alien walls
Of him who hath enticed her hence—her heart
More hoping than misgiving—so, to-day,
Departed the slow train; and now the miles,
Gliding beneath with gradual but sure pace,
Bring them at last to unfamiliar scenes.
Thoughtful they hold their onward, plodding course,
Each in his own reflection wrapt; for now,
With every step, some ancient tie is broke,
Some dream relinquished, or some friend given up:
While old associations spring, self-called,
Even as tears, unbidden. Thus, awhile,
They keep the silent tenour of their way;
Till, like a sudden, unexpected bird,
Which from the still fields soars into the air,
Flooding the noon with melody, up swells
The gladsome voice of Arthur into song,
Cheering the drooping line
“Bid adieu to the homestead, adieu to the vale,
Though the memory recalls them, give grief to the gale:
There the hearths are unlighted, the embers are black,
Where the feet of the onward shall never turn back.
For as well might the stream that comes down from the mount,
Glancing up, heave the sigh to return to its fount;
Yet the lordly Ohio feels joy in his breast
As he follows the sun, onward, into the West.

There the great inland seas wash their measureless shores,
The voice of whose grandeur Niagara pours;
There the wide prairie rolls, a deep ocean, away,
Where the bison toss through in leviathan play;
Or oft pours through autumn a deluge of fire,
Where the herds fly, like demons, in fear and in ire.
At the noon or the midnight, in tempest or rest,
The sublime hath its realm in the land of the West.

Oh, to roam, like the rivers, through empires of woods,
Where the king of the eagles in majesty broods;
Or to ride the wild horse o'er the boundless domain.
And to drag the wild buffalo down to the plain;
There to chase the fleet stag, and to track the huge bear,
And to face the lithe panther at bay in his fair,
Are a joy which alone cheers the pioneer's breast,
For the only true hunting-ground lies in the West!

Leave the tears to the maiden, the fears to the child,
While the future stands beckoning afar in the wild;
For there Freedom, more fair, walks the primeval land,
Where the wild deer all court the caress of her hand.
There the deep forests fall, and the old shadows fly,
And the palace and temple leap into the sky.
Oh, the East holds no place where the onward can rest,
And alone there is room in the land of the West!”

Thus swelled the song, and cheerfulness at last,
With the new scene, possess the flying hour.
And when the evening, like a tollman gray,
Drops his dusk bar across the winding road,
Before the dull, secluded wayside inn,
The laden wains collect, where tired teams
Hear the loud creaking pump, and rustling hay
Which from the near mow rolls; or dusty oats
Poured into troughs, and heave the hungry neigh.
Around the evening hearth, the cheerful groups
Collect; and, in the novel hour, forget
Their various regrets and their fatigues,
While jest and laugh go round. Alone, withdrawn
The mournful Amy by Olivia sits;
And, on the willing shoulder of her friend,
Leans her sad head, and pours her heart of grief,
Mingled with hope, to the confiding breast
Which, having known a kindred pain, can feel,
And, feeling, give its depth of sympathy.
How beautiful is innocence which, thus,
To innocence consigns its deepest thought!—
How pure! how angel-like! A sacred scene
Which, to the brow of cold, suspecting man—
They most suspicious who betray—should start
The colour, given by the sudden blow
Of self-reproach, upon the scoundrel front.