 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
204
THE MARINER'S WELCOME HOME.
“Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.”—
Shelley.
Vibrates in the memory.”—
Shelley.
She knew me not, although her breast
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean's ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
Had pillowed oft my head,
And thought I long had been at rest
With Ocean's ghostly dead.
Full on my wan and wasted face
She fixed her melancholy gaze;
But there, alas! she could not trace
The look of other days.
She knew me not!—the flight of time
An iron form will bow;
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
An iron form will bow;
And bondage in a tropic clime
Had darkened cheek and brow:
I spoke of friends with look cast down,
Who shared her joy in better hours—
Whom Death had added to his crown
Of darkly folded flowers:—
In vain!—the mourning one no glance
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell,
She clasped my neck and wept.
Of love or welcome gave;
She thought beneath the blue expanse
Of ocean was my grave:
I then sang airs that in the cell
Of hoarding memory long had slept,
And with a look tongue cannot tell,
She clasped my neck and wept.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |