When the wind softly sways the azure sea,
My languid spirit kindles at the sight,
And then the land is no more a delight,
Only the mighty main seems sweet to me.
But when the waters in their wrath grow hoar,
And the long rollers rage with curling foam,
I turn again towards my wooded home,
And love to look upon the sea no more.
Ah! sweet the land, and sweet the forest dark,
Whose pines make song, whate'er the wild wind's strife;
And hard, indeed, must be the fisher's life.
Who toils upon the deep, — his home, a bark;
His prey, the roaming fish. But 'tis my lot
Beneath the plane's full leaf at ease to dream.
And thence I love to hear the passing stream,
Whose prattle charms, and can disquiet not.
