Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view, Its colours mellow'd, not impair'd, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Thro' all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish with which its warmth could part, To meet the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain-forest, waving wide; But lo, at last he comes with crouded sail! Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend! In each he hears the welcome of a friend. |