Fades o’er the waters blue;
The loafers yell, the planters roar,
And weeps the mild Hindu.
Apollo his own Bunder gilds,
As slow he sinks from sight:
Farewell to them and thee for aye,
Unhappy land—Good night!
I leave thy shores to which I steered
With hopes that swelled my heart,
Their shadowy phantoms rise again