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THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew,
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!
-"Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled; Soon thro' the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivy'd porch shall spring
The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.