XLI.
Lines
[_]
Written on leaving England, August, 1821.
The white sail is set, and the dark billows heaving;
Yet lingers the eye on the land we are leaving,—
The white shores of England, receding from view
As our ship stands away o'er the waters so blue.
'Tis the last look of England: how lovely from far
Its green hills asleep under evening's bright star,—
Its rich yellow corn-fields, the wave of its trees—
All fading like mist 'midst the clouds and the seas.
'Tis like looking on sunset: and now all is gone,
And my spirit in darkness must wander alone;
And the night will be long ere that morn shall arise
That hails my return to my dear native skies.
Yes! many a season, and many a year,
Must revolve ere my spirit meet those that are dear:
'Twill be long, long, my heart! ere again thou shalt prove
The sweetness of friendship, the softness of love.
Farewell, my dear Susan! I almost could weep
To think that I journey afar on the deep,
While yon bright star of evening is shining on thee,
As you sigh o'er the spot where you parted with me.
But think not, dear maid, I shall ever forget
That bower, in the morning of life, where we met,—
The fall of its waters, the breath of its flowers,
The ringlets and silk on that white neck of yours.
Those first hours of love to remembrance are dear;
My spirit has cherish'd them many a year:
Thy features, thy form, in the green sunny grove,
Are fresh on my breast in their first bloom of love.
Ah! little I thought when thy lip last I prest,
As in lingering fondness on mine 'twas carest,
That long years should pass, far away on the main,
Ere I drank thy soft breath of affection again.
And little I thought that the harp, wreathed with flowers,
Which you taught me to string in our dear native bowers,
To thy sweet song of love, from its long silent sleep,
Should awake from its slumbers so far on the deep.
But all this hath been: I'm alone on the wave,
My only companion the harp that you gave;
And tho' feeble and sad be the notes I awake,
Yet its lingering tones are still dear for thy sake.
That harp hath a charm that can wake from the tomb
The spirit of youth in its brightness and bloom,—
Can renovate feelings that died in their prime,
And surround me with visions of long vanish'd time.
Then welcome enchantress! alone I'll ne'er be,
While o'er the blue waters I journey with thee;
I will fly from the living afar on the wave
To converse with the forms then recalled from the grave.
In hours when my soul is with darkness o'ercast,
I will sing me a song of the years that are past;
And again my sad spirit shall bask in the ray
Of the morning of love fled for ever away.
