As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving. Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk with joyous seeming,— With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us, O, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back at eve
When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind, them glowing,— So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.
THOMAS MOORE.
As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried.
When fell the night, up sprang the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas
By each was cleaving, side by side:
E'en so,—but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged?