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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,
cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
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;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the yellow tide.
But lo, at last he comes with crouded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
_'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furld;
Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell
The spring of Sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first she feels the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief,