And long'd, with breaking heart to flee On such white pinions o'er the sea! Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld! I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line, come hurrying back; My lips are dry with vague desire,— My cheek once more is hot with joyMy pulse, my brain, my soul on fire!— Oh, what has changed that traveller-boy! As leaves the ship this dying foam, His visions fade behind-his weary heart speeds home! Adieu, oh soft and southern shore, Where dwelt the stars long miss'd in heaven! Those forms of beauty seen no more, Yet once to Art's rapt vision given! Oh, still th' enamored sun delays, And pries through fount and crumbling fane, To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shone, Were not my birthright brighter far Soar'd not to heaven our eagle yet— Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget! Adieu, oh fatherland! I see Your white cliffs on th' horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee, My heart swells, and my eyes are dim! As spreads the rain-drop in the river My fancy flew from climes more fair- Ran warm and fast in England's air. My mother! in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears! On long, long darkness breaks the lightComes home the loved, the lost for years! Sleep safe, oh wave-worn mariner ! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea! The wind-tost spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blazeAnd by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays! Dear mother! when our lips can speak— When I can gaze upon thy cheek, And thou, with thy dear eyes, on me― 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had For all may flee, so feeling lingers! But there's a change, beloved mother! To stir far deeper thoughts of thine; I come-but with me comes another To share the heart once only mine! Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, Room in thy heart! The hearth she left There are bright flowers of care bereft, And hearts that languish more than flowers She was their light-their very air Room, mother! in thy heart!-place for her in thy prayer! English Channel, May, 1836. THE DYING ALCHYMIST. THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by, And the old shutters of the turret swung Screaming upon their hinges, and the moon, As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes So dimly, that the watchful eye of death Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. The fire beneath his crucible was low; |