To Go-you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away. There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not, if I could, be gay. Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure That fills my bosom when I sigh, You would not rob me of a treasure Monarchs are too poor to buy. Ah! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight-view; True as the needle, homeward points his heart, This, the last wish that would with life depart, When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Or Eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave; Still, still he views the parting look she gave. Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Attends his little bark from pole to pole; And, when the beating billows round him roar, Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul. Carv'd is her name in many a spicy grove, In many a plantain-forest, waving wide; But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend! And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale! In each he hears the welcome of a friend. |