Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Over the Sea

Over the Sea.

Over the sea, over the sea,Lies the land that is loved by me:A sunnier sky may be over my head,And a richer soil beneath my tread,And a softer speech in my ears be rung,Than the notes of my own wild mountain tongue;But never, oh, never, so dear to meCan the loveliest spot in this wide world beAs the bleak, cold land, where the heather wavesRound the place of my birth, o'er my fathers' graves.

Ocean is wide, and his storms are rude,And my heart feels faint in its solitude,To think of the terrible gulf that liesBetwixt me and all that my soul doth prize;And I gaze for hours on the measureless deep,Till my heart could break, though I cannot weep, And I feel the desire of my soul in vain,That the land of my sires I shall ne'er see again,That my tomb shall be hollowed out where now I stand,And my eyelids be closed by some unknown hand.

Mark not the spot where my bones are laid,Whether it be in the dark forest shade,Or fast by the beach where the wild wave lashes,Or deep in the pass where the hill torrent dashes,Or high on the cliff where the eagle sweeps—What matters it where the stranger sleeps?But over the sea, over the sea,How then shall my chainless spirit fleeBack to the land I love so well,To the craggy steep, and the heathy dell.