II.
One morning early, while the gray
And sleeping mist on the river lay,
Ere yet the sun from his ocean bed
Had tinged the distant hills with red,
In quest of game Sir John had gone
Far down the river vale alone;
And standing on a gentle height
He view’d the silver winding James—
What vision glances on his sight?
What sudden fire his cheek inflames?
Is that a sail? Is that a ship,
Glides slowly round the headland dim?
With straining eye and parted lip,
He breathless stands, with moveless limb,
And throws his eager look afar,
Like the quick shooting of a star.
A sail? a ship? He looks again—
It is, it is—he sees it plain;
He sees the sails, he sees the hull,
An English flag at mast-head flies:
And now his throbbing heart is full,
And tears are crowding to his eyes;
Those eyes which had not known a tear,
Before this hour, for many a year.