Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 19 1827/The Parting Ship
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 19, Page 255
THE PARTING SHIP.
""A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain."Wordsworth.
Go in thy glory o'er the ancient Sea,
Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell;
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be—
Fare thee well, Bark, farewell!
Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft,
The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song;
Who now of storms hath dream or memory left?—
And yet the Deep is strong!
But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles
Of Summer tremble on the water's breast!
Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand Isles,
In lone, wild beauty drest.
To thee a welcome, breathing o'er the tide,
The Genii-groves of Araby shall pour;
Waves that enfold the pearl, shall bathe thy side,
On the old Indian shore.
Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie
O'er glassy bays, wherein thy sails are furl'd,
And its leaves whisper, as the wind sweeps by,
Tales of the elder world.
Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies,
On the mid-ocean see thee chain'd in sleep,
A lonely home for human thoughts and ties,
Between the Heavens and Deep!
Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renown'd,
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way;
Strange creatures of th' abyss that none may sound,
In thy broad wake shall play.
From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear,
Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark;—
Blessings go with thee on thy lone career!
Hail, and farewell, thou Bark!
A long farewell!—Thou wilt not bring us back
All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth
Many are thine whose steps no more shall track
Their own sweet native earth!
Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain-shade,
Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright;
Some in the snows of wintry regions laid,
By the cold northern light:
And some far down below the sounding wave—
Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them sweep;
Never may flower be strown above their grave,
Never may sister weep!
And thou—the billow's queen—e'en thy proud form
On our glad sight no more, perchance, may swell;—
Yet God alike is in the calm and storm—
Fare thee well, Bark! farewell!F. H.