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O the cotton plant! the growing fields of rice, sugar,
hemp!
The cactus, guarded with thorns—the laurel-tree,
with large white flowers.
The range afar—the richness and barrenness—the
old woods charged with mistletoe and trailing
moss.
The piney odor and the gloom—the awful natural
stillness, (Here in these dense swamps the free-booter
carries his gun, and the fugitive slave has
his concealed hut;)
O the strange fascination of these half-known, half-impassable
swamps, infested by reptiles, resounding
with the bellow of the alligator, the sad noises
of the night-owl and the wild-cat, and the whirr
of the rattlesnake;
The mocking-bird, the American mimic, singing all
the forenoon—singing through the moon-lit
night.
The humming-bird, the wild-turkey, the raccoon, the
opossum;
A Tennessee corn-field—the tall, graceful, long-leaved
corn—slender, flapping, bright green, with tassels
—with beautiful ears, each well-sheathed in
its husk.
An Arkansas prairie—a sleeping lake, or still bayou;
O my heart! O tender and fierce pangs—I can stand
them not—I will depart;
O to be a Virginian, where I grew up! O to be a
Carolinian!
O longings irrepressible! O I will go back to old Tennessee,
and never wander more!