THE EMIGRANTS.
BY L. E. L.
Oh Love! oh Happiness! is not your home
Far from the crowded street, the lighted hall?
Are ye not dwellers in the vallies green,
In the white cottage? is not your abode
Amid the fields, the rivers, and the hills;
By the sea-shore—where, with its thousand waves,
The ocean casts its treasures of pink shells,
And makes its melancholy music?
*****
They dwelt amid the woods, where they had built
Themselves a home;—it was almost a hut,
And rudely framed of logs and piled-up wood;
But it was covered with sweet creeping shrubs,
And had a porch of evergreens: it stood
Beneath the shelter of a maple tree,
Whose boughs spread over it, like a green tent.
'Twas beautiful, in summer, with gay flowers,
Green leaves, and fragrant grass strewn on the floor;
And, in the winter, cheerful with its hearth,
Where blazed the wood fire, and its tapestry
Of soft rich furs—each a memorial
Of some escape, some toil, some hunter's chance,—
And mixed with scarlet berries, and red plumes,
