The voyage

"Every tedious stride I makeWill but remember me what a deal of worldI wander from the jewels that I love."

Aye! give the body to the deep,That universal grave;There let it sleep the dreamless sleep,—Its mound–an ocean wave.

In losing thee, I've lost a friend,Whose instinct worth, well tried,Could service with affection blend,Though reason was denied.

If thou hadst reach'd the looked for land,I hoped to see thee boundWith frolic gambols on the strand,And hail the adopted ground.

I pictured oft thy mute surprise,When (instinct still the same)New climes had shown thy wond'ring eyesSome unaccustomed game.

I thought to see thee at my side,Watch the uplifted gun–Or view thee in thy race of pride–But now thy race is run.

Wakeful guard 'gainst nightly spoil,Companion of the day;Cheerful partner of my toil,Thou'rt call'd, and must obey.

What meant that last, that wistful gaze,When at thy masters' tread,Thy little strength was meant to raiseThe drooping, dying head?

Was it in hope his essayed skillE'en yet might bring relief ?His power accords not with his will,He could but vent his grief.

Or was it meant as to commendThy new born young bereft?Could substituted care befriendA progeny thus left?

Th' Equator's sun—weak ill-timed brood!Has drain'd your fountain dry;And here no artificial foodCan nature's store supply.

Poor victim of a torrid clime,Where e'en to breathe is pain,Cut off in all thy vigour's prime,Thou'rt gone;—regret is vain.

The wise may think 'tis weak in me,To grieve;—so let it pass:But yet I feel, in losing thee,I've lost a friend—Poor Lass.

Oh, what a spirit-stirring dayFor me would this have been,Had I on land been doomed to stay;But here, how changed the scene!

I tread not now the heathy plains,Nor climb the mountain's side,Where undisturb'd the moor-cock reignsIn solitary pride.

My path is on the trackless wave,And through the billowy foam;Where ocean birds together haveTheir cradle and their tomb.

But memory dwells on that dear sound,The cheerful, welcome home;When amidst friends those joys were foundWhich ne'er again may come.

But, home and friends, where shall I find?–Henceforth 'twill be my partTo seek for friends within my mind;My home must be my heart.

I gaze on the moon—I gaze on the moon—As at home I have gazed of yore;But the change of scene, and the space between,Make me feel the same pleasure no more.

For it brings to mind the land of my birth,And it painfully brings to mindMy solitude here, and the friends so dear,For ever perhaps left behind.

And it brings to mind, oh! it brings to mind,Happy hours that are now gone by;The blush and the smile, as I gazed the whileOn the light of a soft blue eye.

And it makes me feel, oh! it makes me feel,The loss of those earlier years;When hearts are so light, and hope is so bright,And nothing but pleasure appears.

Then the moon looks lone, and I feel as lone,How could it otherwise be?There's nothing on high, but a starless sky,And here there's nothing but sea.

And that passing cloud, and that passing cloud,Whose gloom as it low'rs, I now mark,Is the transient shade which sorrow has made,When the prospect around looks dark.

It brightens again, it brightens again,And how clear is the blue serene!The cloud passes on, the shadow is gone,Was ever so placid a scene?

So is it with hope,—thus is it with hope,For hope seems to me like the moon;Its look is so soft, it changes so oft,And it darkens and brightens as soon.

Hope saves from despair,—hope conquers despair,And enlivens the surrounding gloom:Its abiding ray fadeth not away,But shines—even on to the tomb.

Then rouse thee my heart, and cheer thee my heart,And let all thy hopes still be green;For oh! thou shalt not by friends be forgot,Though distance and time intervene.

But prepare to meet,—be ready to meetWhat good or what ill may befall,Whatever betide, be it still thy prideTo be calm and resign'd in all.

Are you as the dead? has all pleasure fled?Are there no joys for those who roam?Can no place on earth but the place of our birthBe called by the sweet name of home?

From its native clay,—from its native clayWe transplant to a genial soilThe vigorous shoot, lo! it soon takes root,And will amply repay our toil.

Though it pine at first—though it pine at firstWith regret for its parent bed,The bright sunny clime, and propitious time,Will raise up its fallen head.

Friends hallow a spot—Love hallows a spot,But bliss is to no spot confin'd;'Tis here, or 'tis there, 'tis everywhere,Its dwelling place is in the mind.

Let us make a home,—let us make a home,Wherever our lot may be cast;Let us new friends find, bear the old in mind,And cherish the days that are past.

So shine on sweet hope, and shine bright sweet hope,And if the sky darken,—why then,We'll look for the ray of that promis'd day,When friends may all meet once again.

"The Pleiades before him danced,Shedding sweet influence."

When gentle slumber seals my eyes,And dreamy thoughts are free as air,Back, back to home my fancy flies,And fondly, fondly lingers there.

Methought, that when some years had pass'd,I trod again my native shore,And forward still my looks were cast,Till I had reach'd my home once more.

But over all there seemed a change—Save over my own mind alone;And there were many faces strangeAmidst a few I once had known.

I miss'd the old sequester'd spot,The fav'rite walk, the well-known tree;And, somehow, flowers and shrubs were notWhere mem'ry said they ought to be.

And faithful unchanged mem'ry soughtFamiliar looks–alas! in vain–Time had been there, and time had broughtNew scenes, new faces, in his train.

Can this, I said, can this be home—That home I've longed so much to see?In such brief space do changes come,Or is the change alone in me?

Deep darkness o'er my spirit came,My troubled soul was wrapp'd in shade,Till one dear sound thrill'd through my frameWhen music lent her soothing aid.

For there was one who struck a chordAnd waked a well-remembered sound,Which like a spell broke sorrows ward,And then, and then my home was found.