Far off from the smoke, and the city's glare,
To the breath of the clover lea;
From the din and dust to the healthful air,
And the song of a tranquil sea.
Which falls on the ear like a holy psalm
From a world unkenned of strife;
As the eve glides past in a blissful calm,
Like the close of a well-spent life.
Yet sighings of sorrow are heard in the foam
Which white-wreathes thy border, Point Prim;
As she telleth their fate, who left thee, to roam,
The eyes of the mother wax dim.
Of him who ne'er quitted dread danger's post
Till engulfed in the treacherous wave;
Or of him who fevered on sultry coast,
And was launched in the sailor's grave.
No thrilling oration shall vaunt their praise,
No flowers bloom over their breast;
The surges shall wail through the long, long days,
Yet disturb not their quiet rest.
No kindred shall bind them in narrow bed,
No marble earth's sympathy crave;
Sea-shells will pillow the wave-shrouded head,
And winds sigh the dirge of her brave.
No more by the wood path, through falling leaves,
Will she hasten their steps to greet;
But yet will she gather her golden sheaves,
When time and eternity meet.
No more will they weather the tempest's strain,
With a lowering sky o'erhead;--
One haven will shelter her loved again
When the sea giveth up its dead.