Land and Sea
The seaman may sing of his own vast sea,
And the swain of his own sweet land;
But it boots not where the wanderer be,
With a chainless heart and hand;
In storm the sea hath a fearful power—
A beauty in repose;
And the land is rich in fruit and flower,
Or bleak in winter's snows.
How free to bound o'er the waters wide,
Swift as the rushing gale!
How sweet to look from the mountain's side
On the calm sequestered vale!
There's a charm in the greenwood's summer sigh—
There's a spell in ocean's roar;
I have loved, I have sought them both, as fly
Spring birds from shore to shore.
I was born on the verge of the ocean deep,
I have played with his locks of foam,
And watched his weltering billows leap
From the door of my cottage home:
I would die on the breast of some lonely isle,
Where no rude footsteps sound—
Where a southern heaven on my grave may smile,
And the wild waves boom around.
And the swain of his own sweet land;
But it boots not where the wanderer be,
With a chainless heart and hand;
In storm the sea hath a fearful power—
A beauty in repose;
And the land is rich in fruit and flower,
Or bleak in winter's snows.
How free to bound o'er the waters wide,
Swift as the rushing gale!
How sweet to look from the mountain's side
On the calm sequestered vale!
There's a charm in the greenwood's summer sigh—
There's a spell in ocean's roar;
I have loved, I have sought them both, as fly
Spring birds from shore to shore.
I was born on the verge of the ocean deep,
I have played with his locks of foam,
And watched his weltering billows leap
From the door of my cottage home:
I would die on the breast of some lonely isle,
Where no rude footsteps sound—
Where a southern heaven on my grave may smile,
And the wild waves boom around.
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