THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view; Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart, This, the last wish that would with life depart, When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! -'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Immota manet; multosque nepotes, Multa virum volvens durando sæcula, vincit.-VIRG. ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move! From thee no sacred murmurs breathe! Yet within thee, thyself a grove, There once the steel-clad knight reclined, Then Culture came, and days serene; Father of many a forest deep, Whence many a navy thunder-fraught! Wont in the night of woods to dwell, A A |