Perchance a grave. And he who ventureth forth,
The willing prisoner of some white-winged ship,
To seek Hygeia o’er the wave, or test
What spells do linger round those classic climes
That woke his boyhood’s dream, fails not his heart
As the blest hills of Neversink withdraw
Their misty guardianship?
Speech may not tell—
For well I know its poverty to paint
The rapture, when the homeward glance descries,