Classic Poem

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,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view;
Its colors mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again

When Morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or Eve's gray cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he sees 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 soothe his troubled soul.

Carved 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'erarch the golden tide.

But, lo! at last he comes with crowded 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.

'T is she, 't is she herself! she waves her hand!
Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled;
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land,
And clasps the maid he singled from the world.