Till then a short farewell—my lovely boy,
Thy shipmates darling, and thy father’s joy. [[403]]
Yet one small comfort soothes (while doom’d to part,
Dear gallant youth!) thy parent’s broken heart;
No more thy tender frame, thy blooming age,
Shall be the sport of Ocean’s turb’lent rage:
No more thy olive beauties on the waves
Shall be the scorn of some European slaves;
Whose optics, blind to merit, ne’er could spy
That sterling worth could bloom beneath a western sky.