Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the distant mountain chain;
But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made their final stand,
And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his little pilgrim band.
Stay! even now in fancy, I can see their forms once more,
I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope they wore—
Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, Mag and Joe—
’Neath that oak[80] I see them kneeling, tho’ ’tis thirty years ago!
And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed another year,
Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn hung ripe in the ear.
Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, well knew,