 | My Sonnets |  |
DEFOE.
Well may men bless thee. On, we, voyaging, go,Through life, and over sleeping summer seas,
Our track foredestined seldom lies—the breeze
Not often wafts us gently on—we know
Little of calm and sunshine here below:
Yet, for a time, the wanderer finds ease,
Though storms rage round him—yet, unmoved, he sees
The gathering tempest o'er him gloomier grow;
He hears the rustling trees sigh, whispering, o'er
Crusoe's lone isle,—no more he heeds the flight
Of the swift hours; pain, poverty, no more
Shadow his way; with ever new delight
He watches the lone seaman's life, and hears
His tale with hopes and smiles and pleasant, pitying, tears.
November 14th, 1842.
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