To lie to wharves we know with canvas furled.
My little Boat, we shall not make the haven—
It is not of the world.
Somewhere of English forelands grandly guarded
It stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean;
Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:—
My youth lies in between.
So in this snare that holds me and appals me,
Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain,
The Sea compels me and my Country calls me,