 | Poems |  |
49
AT ANCHOR.
A sailor by the green home shore,
When seas are ebbing from his view,
Doth all his early joys renew:
He sings the songs he sang of yore;
When seas are ebbing from his view,
Doth all his early joys renew:
He sings the songs he sang of yore;
He spies his little cot, he smiles
With a full joy ne'er felt before—
He holds that one bare prospect more
Than all the summer of the isles.
With a full joy ne'er felt before—
He holds that one bare prospect more
Than all the summer of the isles.
The quiet home is his; the trees
Sprang from the seeds his grandsires laid
Among the mold; within the glade
The myrtles rustle in the breeze.
Sprang from the seeds his grandsires laid
Among the mold; within the glade
The myrtles rustle in the breeze.
Above a treasured little grave,
His early lost, his first deep woe!
Not any land that he may know
Beyond the purple of the wave
His early lost, his first deep woe!
Not any land that he may know
Beyond the purple of the wave
50
Hath such a jewel in its breast.
He loves each rock and stream and dell;
'Tis only here he cares to dwell,
'Tis ever here he longs to rest.
He loves each rock and stream and dell;
'Tis only here he cares to dwell,
'Tis ever here he longs to rest.
This is his home of joy and ease:
And better is the myrtle tomb
Than all the heavy dusks that gloom
The groves of spice beyond the seas.
And better is the myrtle tomb
Than all the heavy dusks that gloom
The groves of spice beyond the seas.
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