To their haven under the hill;
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
COLUMBUS—WESTWARD.[18]
Behind him lay the gray Azores,