FAR WEST EMIGRANT.

Mine eye is weary of the plains

Of verdure vast and wide

That stretch around me — lovely, calm,

From morn till even-tide;

And I recall with aching heart

My childhood's village home;

Its cottage roofs and garden plots,

Its brooks of silver foam.

True glowing verdure smiles around,

And this rich virgin soil

Gives stores of wealth in quick return

For hours of careless toil;

But oh! the reaper's joyous song

Ne'er mounts to Heaven's dome,

For unknown is the mirth and joy

Of the merry “Harvest Home.”

The solemn trackless woods are fair,

And bright their summer dress;

But their still hush — their whisprings vague,

My heart seem to oppress;

And‘ neath their shadow could I sit,

And think the livelong day

On my country's fields and hedges green,

Gemmed with sweet hawthorn spray.

The graceful vines and strange bright flow'rs,

I meet in every spot,

I'd give up for a daisy meek,

A blue forget-me-not;

And from the brilliant birds I turn,

Warbling the trees among;

I know them not — and breathe a sigh

For lark or linnet's song.

But useless now those vain regrets!

My course must finish here;

In dreams alone I now can see

Again my home so dear,

Or those fond loving friends who clung

Weeping unto my breast;

And bade “God speed me” when I left,

To seek the far, far West.