At dead of night their sails were filled,
And onward each rejoicing steered;— Ah! neither blame, for neither willed
Or wist what first with dawn appeared.
To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides;
To that and your own selves be true.
But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again,—
Together lead them home at last.
One port, methought, alike they sought,—
One purpose hold where'er they fare; O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there!
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE.
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land—Good Night!
A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.
LORD BYRON.