Classic Poem

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared as they tell;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it O Brazil, the isle of the blest.
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In the breeze of the Orient, loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,
For though Ara was holy, O Brazil was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the shore,
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;
Home, kindred and safety he left on that day,
And he sped to O Brazil, away, far away!

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before:
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
Oh, far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!

Rash dreamer, return! O ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again;
Rash fool, for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of Reason was spoken in vain,
He never revisited Ara again;
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!