That sailor I’ve noted—his cheek, fresh and blooming

With health, scarcely yet twenty springs can have

seen;

His looks they are lofty, but never presuming,

His limbs strong, but light, and undaunted his mien.

Frank and clear is his brow, yet a thoughtful expression,

Half tender, half mournful, oft shadows his eye;

And murmurs escape him, which make the confession,

If not check’d by a hem, they had swell’d to a sigh.

His song is not pour’d to beguile the lone hour,