216 ARRIVAL OF EMIGRANTS,

The pitchers, carried oft to fill
At the familiar village spring;
When by Missouri all is still,
Visions of home will round them cling.

The rustic well, with stones girt round,
The low stone-wall they bended o’er,
The hearth upon the family ground,
The mantelpiece, with all its store: | .

All will be dear, when, in the West,
These pitchers deck the lone log-hut,

Or when reached down, that some brown guest
May quench his thirst and travel on.

Tired in the chase the Cherokees
Will drink from them on hunting-ground ;
No more from glad grape-gleaning these
Shall come, with German vine-leaves crowned.

Why, wanderers, must you leave your land?
The Neckar-vale has wine and corn;

Tall firs in our Black Forest stand ;
In Spessart sounds the Alper’s horn.

Mid foreign woods you'll long in vain
For your paternal mountains green,
For Deutschland’s yellow fields of grain,
And hill of vines with purple sheen.

The vision of your olden time,
Of all you leave so far behind,
Like some old legendary rhyme,
Will rise in dreams and haunt your mind.

The boatman calls—depart in peace!
God keep you, man, and wife, and child!
Joy dwell with you! and fast increase
Your rice and maize in yonder wild.”

Carl smiled at the little slips of the poet, about
Cherokees and rice on the Missouri; and thought it