394
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
Joy to the storm-tost mariner,
When, dimly far, Columbus spied
The blue line of San Salvador
Lift o'er the golden tide!
Yes, hopes and wishes fell like rays
Upon me from that starry blaze;
And well I knew that I should turn
Safely my homeward prow once more,
And once more view their glory burn,
Silvering the billows toward the shore
Of Northern climes, to which my soul
Still pointed with magnetic power;
Though soft the scene and fair the hour,
And though the billows' murmuring roll
Lulled every sense in deep repose,
And winds, that seemed to waft the rose,
Came to me through the Tropic night,
Suggesting visions of delight,
And rapturous dreams of beauty bright,
In Southern chambers, never known
To dwellers in the Temperate zone.
When, dimly far, Columbus spied
The blue line of San Salvador
Lift o'er the golden tide!
Yes, hopes and wishes fell like rays
Upon me from that starry blaze;
And well I knew that I should turn
Safely my homeward prow once more,
And once more view their glory burn,
Silvering the billows toward the shore
Of Northern climes, to which my soul
Still pointed with magnetic power;
Though soft the scene and fair the hour,
And though the billows' murmuring roll
Lulled every sense in deep repose,
And winds, that seemed to waft the rose,
Came to me through the Tropic night,
Suggesting visions of delight,
And rapturous dreams of beauty bright,
In Southern chambers, never known
To dwellers in the Temperate zone.
And so we sailed — on — on — while smiles
Dimpled each billow's azure cheek,
And then we hailed those happy isles
That Nature's fond enthusiasts seek,
Because perpetual Summer dwells
In all their flower-besprinkled dells,
And lifts his banners green above
Their hills and woods, and hangs his wreaths
In all their bowers — where lasting love
The incense of fruition breathes.
Dimpled each billow's azure cheek,
And then we hailed those happy isles
That Nature's fond enthusiasts seek,
Because perpetual Summer dwells
In all their flower-besprinkled dells,
And lifts his banners green above
Their hills and woods, and hangs his wreaths
In all their bowers — where lasting love
The incense of fruition breathes.
It is, in truth, a fairy clime,
With all its beauty spared by Time.
Though Cultivation o'er the land
Hath sown its seeds with liberal hand;
Though, in the lapse of many a year
The Spirit of the Storm appear,
And hurl destruction far and near,
So rapidly is life regained
With all its beauty spared by Time.
Though Cultivation o'er the land
Hath sown its seeds with liberal hand;
Though, in the lapse of many a year
The Spirit of the Storm appear,
And hurl destruction far and near,
So rapidly is life regained
