And Hope’s eternal watch-fire gives it light!
The soul again is nerved—the storm rolls on—
Morn breaks, and with it comes the welcome sun,
And though, as yet, no land salutes the eye,
Some tropic bird comes wheeling gaily by;
The air seems sweeter, and the ocean’s foam
Looks fresher, brighter, and reminds of home!
Oh! who may paint the rapture of that hour—
The peril past, the breeze, with fresh’ning power,
Filling the out-spread canvass! Who may tell