Turn home, heart-broken child! turn home;
That bark is in the deep;
And she has gone with the tinted shells
To their own green caves to sleep.
Her spirit owns a brighter isle
Than floats the moon below;
Where never the thunder-blast is heard,
She lists to the song of the scarlet bird,
And plays with the beautiful doe.
There! for this letter you owe me an oyster supper,—but if you will give me that beautiful engraving from Claude, hanging in your study, I will call the matter settled.