The emigrant’s way o’er the western desert is mark’d by
	Camp-fires long consum’d and bones that bleach in the sunshine.

Longfellow.    

	Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed,
	The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
	Forc’d from their homes, a melancholy train,
	To traverse climes beyond the western main.

Goldsmith.    

	Let us depart! the universal sun
	Confines not to one land his blessed beams;
	Nor is man rooted, like a tree, whose seed
	The winds on some ungenial soil have cast
	There, where it cannot prosper.

Southey.    

	Down where yon anch’ring vessel spreads the sail,
	That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale,
	Downward they move, a melancholy band,
	Pass from the shore and darken all the strand.

Goldsmith.    

	Good heav’n! what sorrows gloom’d that parting day,
	That call’d them from their native walks away,
	When the poor exiles, ev’ry pleasure past,
	Hung round the bow’rs, and fondly look’d their last,
	And took a long farewell, and wish’d in vain,
	For seats like these beyond the western main,
	And shudd’ring still to face the distant deep,
	Return’d and wept, and still return’d to weep.

Goldsmith.    

	I hear the tread of pioneers
	Of nations yet to be,
	The first low wash of waves where soon
	Shall roll a human sea.

Whittier.