Against the bulwarks on the poop
    I lean, and watch the sun
Behind the red horizon stoop—
    His race is nearly run.
Those waves will never quench his light,
    O’er which they seem to close,
To-morrow he will rise as bright
    As he this morning rose.

How brightly gleams the orb of day
    Across the trackless sea!
How lightly dance the waves that play
    Like dolphins in our lee!
The restless waters seem to say,
    In smothered tones to me,
How many thousand miles away
    My native land must be!

Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same
    Now all is new to me?—
The tropic sky’s resplendent flame,
    The vast expanse of sea?
Does all around her, yet unchanged,
    The well-known aspect wear?
Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged
    Have made no difference there?

How vivid Recollection’s hand
    Recalls the scene once more!
I see the same tall poplars stand
    Beside the garden door;
I see the bird-cage hanging still;
    And where my sister set
The flowers in the window-sill—
    Can they be living yet?

Let woman’s nature cherish grief,
    I rarely heave a sigh
Before emotion takes relief
    In listless apathy;
While from my pipe the vapours curl
    Towards the evening sky,
And ’neath my feet the billows whirl
    In dull monotony!

The sky still wears the crimson streak
    Of Sol’s departing ray,
Some briny drops are on my cheek,
    ’Tis but the salt sea spray!
Then let our barque the ocean roam,
    Our keel the billows plough;
I shed no tears at quitting home,
    Nor will I shed them now!