"Unmoor my ship, thou helmsman good,
And steer me back to land;
"For my mother, I know, is sick at heart,
And longs my face to see.
What ails thee now, thou Nautilus?
Art slow to sail with me?
Up! do my will; the wind is fresh,
So set the vessel free."
He turned the helm; away we sailed
Towards the setting sun: