Poems (Hinxman)/The Emigrant
THE EMIGRANT.
The farewell visit had to every friend
Been made: her task was done; and now the road
That led her home was o'er the downs. The shades
Of that dear village at her feet she saw,
And as she walked alone, the thoughts and tears,
Kept back by force through all that busy day,
Rose irrepressible. She stopped and sat
Upon a knoll where crept the humble thyme,
Sweet in its early bloom; with fragrant breath
The breeze that haunts the downs about her strayed,
And to her wistful eyes the dying day
Put all its beauty forth. The slopes that stretched
Beneath her feet, blushed to the sunset sky,—
Then came the tufted hedgerows, and the tracts
Of quiet pasture-grounds that slept between;
Some with a centre darkened by the shade
Of broad and solitary oak, or group
Of elms, to which, with busy voice and wing,
The rooks were crowding home,—some sprinkled o'er
With placid herds of cattle, some still brown
With scattered hay; and ever and anon,—
Catching a parting sunbeam,—the shy stream
Revealed its course through all those pleasant fields,
Then glided into arching shade again,
While from its bank the sauntering angler dropped
His line upon its glassy breast, or stooped
The maiden with her pitcher. Through the boughs
Of orchard trees the cottage gables laughed,
Past which his team along the curving road
The whistling labourer guided. From the Bridge
Arose the shouts of children at their play;
O there and thus had she a thousand times
Played through a merry childhood! Crimson light
Flamed in the windows of the old Church tower,
That had so lately to the hills around
Given forth the music of her wedding-chime,—
Her's, but a Bride last week, an Emigrant
To-morrow morn from England's happy shores.
She sat and gazed until the tranquil sky
Had yielded up its glories; in the west,
Only a line of pale green light remained,
O'er which, with meek and holy lustre, hung
The evening star;—so o'er the broad dark sea
And lonely vessel on the morrow's night
Its gentle rays should beam, a link to home,
A witness and a type to wanderers' hearts,
Of that pervading Presence and that Love
Which changes not with time or scene. She clasped
Her hands, and bowed her forehead, and a prayer
Breathed from a trusting spirit, flowed to Heaven.
And when she took again her homeward path,
Her step fell cheerily on the turf, her heart
Was!lightened like a cloud that floats away,
When showers were ended, over the blue sky;
Nor, when the curfew chimes with sudden call
Awakened the clear echoes of the hills,
Fell they with sound too blithe upon a heart
Composed and gladdened by love, hope, and faith.
Been made: her task was done; and now the road
That led her home was o'er the downs. The shades
Of that dear village at her feet she saw,
And as she walked alone, the thoughts and tears,
Kept back by force through all that busy day,
Rose irrepressible. She stopped and sat
Upon a knoll where crept the humble thyme,
Sweet in its early bloom; with fragrant breath
The breeze that haunts the downs about her strayed,
And to her wistful eyes the dying day
Put all its beauty forth. The slopes that stretched
Beneath her feet, blushed to the sunset sky,—
Then came the tufted hedgerows, and the tracts
Of quiet pasture-grounds that slept between;
Some with a centre darkened by the shade
Of broad and solitary oak, or group
Of elms, to which, with busy voice and wing,
The rooks were crowding home,—some sprinkled o'er
With placid herds of cattle, some still brown
With scattered hay; and ever and anon,—
Catching a parting sunbeam,—the shy stream
Revealed its course through all those pleasant fields,
Then glided into arching shade again,
While from its bank the sauntering angler dropped
His line upon its glassy breast, or stooped
The maiden with her pitcher. Through the boughs
Of orchard trees the cottage gables laughed,
Past which his team along the curving road
The whistling labourer guided. From the Bridge
Arose the shouts of children at their play;
O there and thus had she a thousand times
Played through a merry childhood! Crimson light
Flamed in the windows of the old Church tower,
That had so lately to the hills around
Given forth the music of her wedding-chime,—
Her's, but a Bride last week, an Emigrant
To-morrow morn from England's happy shores.
She sat and gazed until the tranquil sky
Had yielded up its glories; in the west,
Only a line of pale green light remained,
O'er which, with meek and holy lustre, hung
The evening star;—so o'er the broad dark sea
And lonely vessel on the morrow's night
Its gentle rays should beam, a link to home,
A witness and a type to wanderers' hearts,
Of that pervading Presence and that Love
Which changes not with time or scene. She clasped
Her hands, and bowed her forehead, and a prayer
Breathed from a trusting spirit, flowed to Heaven.
And when she took again her homeward path,
Her step fell cheerily on the turf, her heart
Was!lightened like a cloud that floats away,
When showers were ended, over the blue sky;
Nor, when the curfew chimes with sudden call
Awakened the clear echoes of the hills,
Fell they with sound too blithe upon a heart
Composed and gladdened by love, hope, and faith.
1845.