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They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore

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Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields

Made by me on a voyage from Bordeaux to Dublin (1830). I saw a great creamy slope of sea on the horizon, rolling toward us.

I often, as I say, chronicle on the spot, in four or five words or more, whatever strikes me as picturesque in nature.

of barren foam.

Then some one said, ‘We will return no more;’
And all at once they sang, ‘Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.’