What billows, what gales is she fated to prove,
Ere she sleep in the lee of the land that I love!
Yet pleasant the swell of the billows would be,
And the roar of those gales would be music to me.
Not the tranquillest air that the winds ever blew,
Not the sunniest tears of the summer-eve dew,
Were as sweet as the storm, or as bright as the foam
Of the surge, that would hurry your wanderer home.
[1] Pinkerton has said that "a good history and description of the
Bermudas might afford a pleasing addition to the geographical library;"
but there certainly are not materials for such a work. The island, since
the time of its discovery, has experienced so very few vicissitudes, the
people have been so indolent, and their trade so limited, that there is
but little which the historian could amplify into importance; and, with
respect to the natural productions of the country, the few which the
inhabitants can be induced to cultivate are so common in the West Indies,
that they have been described by every naturalist who has written any
account of those islands.
[2] Mountains of Sicily, upon which Daphnis, the first Inventor of bucolic
poetry, was nursed by the nymphs.
[3] A ship, ready to sail for England.
THE STEERMAN'S SONG,
WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE
28TH APRIL.
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