THE EMIGRANT.
It may be that the savage sea is foaming
And wild winds roaming where thy ship goes free;
Yet still as dearly, brother, and sincerely,
As if more nearly, we will cling to thee.
The white sails wing thee fast hrough Biscay billows,
Past English willows we are whirling on;
Though wider never did drear waste dissever,
Better than ever we will love thee gone.
We shall not know by what sweet isles of blossom,
Thy bark's broad bosom ploughs the rippled blue;
What storms are chiding, what soft winds are gliding,
No longed-for tiding—yet our hearts are true.
For seeking still to know where thou art, Rover,
We but discover that our love is there;
Far, far behind thee we are strong to find thee,
Oh then remind thee of the love left here.
August, 1854.
