Poems

Front matter

BY

EDITH M. DAVID.

PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.

The Midshipman's Bible

As home comes rushing on his soul's unrest, And to his lips his mother's prize is pressed. Once in his berth, his boyish courage breaks, And down his cheeks a tear comes fast which makes His young heart almost bleed anew with pain, As home thoughts crowd on his soul again. Low bent in prayer before the throne of Grace He kneels, and through clasped hands that shield his face The burning tears pierce through.—Ah! who shall say What strength to him is given who thus can pray? Shall not He who once crossed the crested wave, And by His word gave proof that He could save, Fill with a peace beyond all earthly joy, The heart of that God fearing sailor boy? Alone he kneels, with only strangers near, Severed from those who love and call him dear: But gentle sleep o'ertakes his weary eyes, Dries up the tear, and stills the heaving sighs.

And weeks fly by: and thus he learns to love The ocean's waves and starry depths above. What joy he feels as thus upon the sea He reads its deep and dreadful mystery!

And as his face by summer breeze is fanned, He sits with this her Bible in his hand.

And days pass on,—the ship is homeward bound: He longs once more to touch the sacred ground Of England, his home, his own native land; Once more to feel that fond and dear embrace; Once more to press his lips to that fond face,— But oh! such joy for him can never be, His mother's face he never more shall see! "Mother," he cries, "the clouds drive fast to-night; No star is there in all the heavens to light The gathering gloom." The mother kneels in prayer— To Him the God of storms—and prays that He Will guard her only one upon the sea. Down to the beach the rough waves pour Their noisy flood with loud and deafening roar; The wild sea birds scream to the fitful gale, And the winds re-echo the ceaseless wail! At length is heard the sound of a minute gun, And the mother thinks of her only son— With a piercing scream, from her prayer-bent knee She starts and cries "O God!—a gun at sea." With frantic haste down to the shore she speeds, And there at once her greatest sorrow reads.

With wild clasped hands and cold and whitened lip, Helpless to save she sees the sinking ship— Upon the shore it drifts a heavy wreck, While sea-gulls scream a requiem o'er her deck. The childless widow to her home returns, With anguish in her heart that almost burns Her life away. In sad silent sorrow She goes her lone way upon the morrow: Along the sea-side sands she hears the roar Of ocean waves, when on that rocky shore There comes to her keen ears a piteous whine Of a dumb one's grief and a poor brute's sign. She listens a while, and then follows the sound, And scarce has she paced the tall cliffs round Ere she sees the mute friend of him her pride, Who leads with sad step to her lost one's side. There lowly she kneels by her dead boy's side To kiss his white lips and his locks divide: And watching him there through the tears that start She sees her Bible pressed close to his heart. With a prayer to her God, and long drawn sigh, She asks that with him alone she might die.

And as time went on and year followed year, The widow still looked with many a tear On that Book of his with cover so worn,

And its well thumbed pages and leaves so torn,— And carefully placed in the sacred place Is a lock of hair that speaks of his face. How often she thought of his gentle smile, Which now she can feel is lost but a while: How often she prays that He the all wise Will take her to meet him in Paradise.

And when years had passed and her tread was slow, And to church she felt could no longer go,— When her voice was weak and her eyes were dim,— In autumn's eve she was taken to him.

"Neath a yew tree in the church-yard loved best The widow is laid with her boy at rest.

What is Man?

Dispersed by them still, as vapour bright, Like wintr'y sun, when o'er the barren down; And flame tinted ocean, that seems to frown In those rough crested waves, which o'er its face Leap to the shingled shore in 1dle grace. And when the sinking sun, a weary dip, His red throne midst deep, the passing ship Doth seem to sail athwart his ruby breast, Till ebon-veil'd darkness around her rest! Thy number'd hairs, and wondrous frame, the care Of Him, thy Master, every limb doth bear;— Thy treasured eyes, a ray of Heavenly light, Lo! at His Word could close in endless night;— The tropic sand, parch'd waste, the smiling vale, God's Hand doth bless, the mountain or the dale. Man's noblest works, in dust or ruin lies; In his proudest halls the lone owlet cries! Thou shadow! thy poor mind would fondly clasp That which unfathomed lies beyond thy grasp. Pause, presumptuous babbler l—there is between, Immeasureable gulfs, too vast, I ween, E'er with thy feeble human brain to span.

Beware, lest, Moses like, thou see'st the land, Beset by doubts and fears on either hand: Behold, now lost to ye for evermore,

The fair home thou could'st have won on Heav'n's shore. Like a prisoner, bending 'neath the rod, Meet face to face thy deep offended God! Oh! see'st thou not the "Infinite" didst place In secret, hidden from thy wondering face, Much that is destined from thyself to lie; Unfitted for thy frail and mortal eye? Oh! can'st thou count the grains of yellow sand, That weaves a golden belt around the land? Can'st thou, from its vast depths, the ocean drain?— Of other years, draw forth the wrecks again? Ephem'ral one! limit not Him who made Thou, and thy world!—The mighty Hand that gave To thee perfection, and perfection's crown: Thy first great sin brought sorrow quickly down! What is thy God?—A Spirit, that doth move— An unseen Being, whose Almighty Love Thro' all Eternity, in His own power Has past;—a breath; a vision as of flowers— Pure, undefiled, in Paradise that bloom Amidst the gardens of the blest so soon.— As their Earth's mission done, to our dull eye, Beneath the wintry winds they fade and die. Not so they rise, in glories fresh and true, Far, far beyond the star realms, and the blue

Untrodden cloud-land, and to bloom again, Mid happy souls released from worldly pain. Oh! fair flowers, ye are footsteps surely, made By Angels o'er the world our Master gave, As beauteous samples of His mighty Hand!— That could by "Word" a world's foundation plan. There is a gulf, an abyss, vast, unseen, Some lives, and actions, e'en some thoughts be- tween. Alas! one so foul, and one oft so pure,— 'Tis curious that each should thus endure; Sever'd, yet bound, as by some magic spell, The pure and tarnished oft together dwell. Inscrutable the great occult laws which bind The natural living soul to all mankind And, amidst the worst we yet sometimes see Some element still trailing, wild and free, That marks the impress of some fallen soul, Whose form debased, as long years did roll, Still shows how high each aspiration rose, Only, alas! to sink 'midst fear and woe! When science oft her bright glittering wing Shines out, and casts o'er each forbidden thing The golden halo of many a rainbow dream, That e'en with its fair and brilliant gleam, Leads on!—and, yet, alas, but to deceive,

Like the bright fires that at the dewy eve Flies o'er the mossy fen with flick'ring ray, The lone traveller only leads astray. Oh! Thou great Inscrutable, who didst plan Each link and bond that gives to mortal man The power of thought supreme, the form Divine,— Once his glorious image form'd to shine! Oh! Heaven-born gift, thou mak'st our feeble brain Start and recoil;—and yet we seize again, Each sever'd link and portion of the chain. Hail Powers Divine! to Thee indeed be given The perfect praise of nature and of Heav'n. Man, fallen man, shall tune his varied tongue, And thus, by each Thy holy praise be sung; All Thy glorious works must pass away, Thy truth and justice ne'er shall know decay!

Anecdote of a Boy

ANECDOTE OF A BOY,

who was saved during the hurricane which happened off St. Thomas' Island, West Indies, when the royal mail steamer "Rhone" was lost, and many other vessels of different nations. Nearly all the "Rhone" crew perished from the effects of this most fearful "cyclone"; such a one not having been experienced for many, many years. (Oct. 29th, 1867.)

The Boy's Story.—Value of a Life Buoy.

John Bailey, an intelligent looking lad, living at 5, Regent street, Southampton, said,—

"When the ship 'Rhone' struck I was on deck, and jumped on the port side, and then into the water. I was then about half an hour on a piece of wood; and then I saw an ordinary seaman, named Gough, fall out of a life buoy, and I swam towards it. I was knocking about a long time, with both my arms through the lanyards, until it began to rain, and then I thought it was no good stopping any longer, and so I dropped off to sleep in the buoy; but I had no supper first though! I did not dream at all, and when I woke up I was near the shingle, about three quarters of a mile from the shore. I struck off for the shore, and saved myself; and then laid down, and went to sleep all night, with the life buoy for my pillow. The buoy is marked 'Rhone,' and I have brought it home with me. Of course I had nothing for my breakfast. I walked about for two or three hours on Beef Island; and then I fell in with two others, and we have come home in the "Douro."

THE wind is fair, the breeze is free, And land is fading fast; The harbour mouth long left behind, The isles will soon be past.

And on she speeds, her canvas spread, To catch the tropic gales; Ah! well a hundred hearts beat high, The moment when she sails!

The sun hath cool'd his flaming breast Amidst the ocean's wave, And thro' the darkness the young moon Shines ghostly as the grave.

The flying scud, and racking cloud, Around her course along; And thro' the cords and brailed sails It moans its mournful song.

Landward she drifts, before the storm, Swift o'er the angry deep;— She tossing here, and labouring there, Her midnight course doth keep.

Thus speeding thro' the driving gale, The waters rolling free; The light'ning shows, with fitful glare, An isle upon her lee.

A moment, and the good ship lies A wreck amid the rocks; And piece by piece, she slowly yields Before the wild deep's shocks!

A hundred lips in anguish cry, A hundred hearts now quail,— As in their souls they curs'd the hour When tempted thus to sail.

Long howls the wind, with mocking scream, Around the broken mast; 'The moaning surge, the crashing plank, In dire review are past!

The floating forms of dying men, Wash'd from the sinking ship— As o'er the gale there sweeps the cry That's breath'd by dying lips!

And darting from the wreck'd ship side, There bounds one youthful form,— Clings closely to yon floating buoy For safety mid the storm.

Now o'er his head, in pearly shower, The crystal waters sweep, And down within its rolling trough He rests upon the deep!

Long hours do pass, no hand doth come The Sailor Boy to save;— And drifting on, he seems to be But hanging o'er his grave!

Thou, God, art there,—Thy kindly Hand Has sealed his eyes in sleep: Ah! Thou above the Sailor Boy A sov'reign watch doth keep.

His sleep is calm: no thoughts of home Distress his weary breast; And ne'er illusion of the night Can break the Sea Boy's rest!

O God, his trust but lies in Thee,— His youthful conscience clear;— And though upon the deep, he feels That he hath nought to fear.

The morn in blushing splendour breaks Athwart the eastern sky; O'er head, in ever circling flight, The sea bird wheeling by.

And yonder lies the palm crown'd isle, With stretch of pure white strand; The eddying waters bear him on, Till safely reached, the land!

Deliver'd from the bounding main, With cheerful heart once more,— He feels his foot hath touched the reef, And safely greets the shore.

'Tis gained—he weary sinks to rest, The life buoy for his pillow; And sleeps once more, on palmy isle, Saved from the wrathful billow!

To Violets wet with dew

Would, bright as crystal drops of dew Our love to God still clearer stand; Each weary soul retrace anew The records of His mighty Hand!

Would, dear gentle flower, that we Might leave, in death, a name like thine; And our lives would more truly be An image of our Lord Divine!

Prologue

REMINISCENCES OF OXFORD.

The Schools

Their fine old walls have linked their noble fame With thine proud Oxford's ever ancient name. There in sculptured grandeur and beauty rise Their ancient pinnacles to the clear blue skies; How often have the great and honoured dead Aroused thy slumbering echoes with their tread? Some have gone forth and with their cherished name Linked to thy glory their own power and fame; And each fresh laurel added to their crown, Around thy name a nobler glory bound. Say, what is man—that in his little day The boasted joys or griefs should pass away? The time must come when earthly care no more Can touch the icy heart; while, as of yore, The world its round of busy pleasures go, Nor on the vacant place one thought bestow. The golden visions of his power and fame Fade, to the future age—an empty name! His vaunted wisdom lost!—The worm and rust Have trailed his cherished learning in the dust, His thoughts and acts are criticised no more; The world rolls on as thoughtless as of yore! Fast from his fellow-men his memory fades Into oblivion, as the evening shades.

Magdalen College

O'er every gabled point some tendril flings, From each quaint nook, out-peep its lovely leaves, Their pendant garlands waving in the breeze; The virgin creeper, in rich massive shower, Climbs o'er the gabled points, turrets and tower. And in the verdant lawn bright scarlet leaves Lie strewed, and withered all around the trees; Down from each ancient arch there stiffly frown, Grotesque figures with twining ivy crown'd,a Time-worn and defaced, now quaintly there stand, Much changed from mediæval sculptor's hand,— Proudly they raise their dark and blemish'd forms, To brave the Summer sun, or Wint'ry storms!

The Broad Walk

Oft have I wandered 'neath thy verdant groves, And by thy classic stream, that memory loves, Where dewy eve looks down with weeping eye, And stars hang trembling in the twilight sky!— Where, in the distance, all thy noble spires Stand proudly forth, illumined by the fires Of the fast-sinking sun, whose last faint ray, With a thousand fancies brightly play! Oxford! though thy fond groves I see no more, Yet, I'll love thee still for the days of yore. Oft in my walks I seem to see again Thy spires and towers! Oh! dreams so fair and vain, Ye linger like the perfume round the flower, Too rudely snatched from her fair forest bower. Forgive me if in every grove I trace Some fancied scenes of that dear ancient place; Musing, as I speed upon my quiet way, On earthly things and their too fast decay.

Christ Church

And o'er the silent quad its shadows fling! In its far-famed hall, with pride I have seen, Bishops and Cardinals, with Kings and Deans, Noble Knights, Chancellors, and British Queens. Before the portrait of a handsome knight, Truthful to nature and full of life, My mother stood, her eyes suffused with tears, Pale with emotion, and with heart-felt sigh She pressed my hand, drew me to her side,— With gentle accents, and voice so mild, Whisper'd, "It is my Father,a my own dear child, Would that he could speak—for a moment live,— That I once more could hear his kindly voice, And to my only child his blessing give:— Oh! Canada, how short his sovereign rule o'er thee! Beloved and honoured, regretted, mourned was he, When far from his own fair land, alas! Away from earth to Heaven's bliss he passed; From Canada, thy faithful pine-clad shore, A sad and cheerless burden 'The Warspite' bore, Its governor, beneath whose too short sway Thy faithful and rich verdant province lay; The fatal sign, lowered o'er the main, With swelling sails she sweeps once more again!" We leave the hall, descend the steps with care, To breathe once more the soft and balmy air:

Yet, ere I turn, while on the mighty Wolsey's fate, I pause to muse upon the fallen "great,"— Once the proud favourite of a haughty king, Sunk midst disgrace—what lessons doth it bring! He who had ruled with unrelenting sway, O'er king and peasant in his palmy day; By man forsaken, of every hope forlorn, Midst Leicester's noble towers, died, alas! unmourn'd. How valueless is worldly wealth and great fame! They die perchance alone—some empty name Are the sad records of the human soul, That make this vain world its highest goal. There is a lamp that too often dimly shines O'er the wide waste of swiftly-rolling Time. When true ambition fires the soul of man, What glorious thoughts and mighty deeds are plan'd! The noble offspring of a good and generous mind, With true love-cords our affections to bind,— Grand in each vast idea, it ever fondly seems To seize on our brightest hope, the passing gleam, Moulded and formed to hold its glorious sway, And with gentle hands it rules too short a day! Alas! when fled for ever to a heavenly home,

We catch the glories which around it shone:— The ever thoughtless self, whose memories show The generous worth, scarce valued here below; Each noble deed and word for ever chain'd To the regretted object of an honoured name!

Epilogue

Beware! Rome's deep and ever subtle guile Is laid beneath her soft and blandest smile,— With every outward pomp and glittering show, She steadily seeks to strike the dire blow! Beware! lest midst the ruins of her former state, Proud Oxford, sorrowing, mourns her fallen fate.

The First day of Spring

I hear the soft sound of the humble bee It reminds me of years long past, When I was a child, full of joy and glee, How I raced it o'er the grass.

In an orchard near, full of lovely bloom, I can hear the cuckoo cry, Sweet emblem of Spring, how much too soon To us you will say "Good-bye"!

I hear the murmur of a rippling brook, Flowing down in a crystal stream: I walk to the bank and take a look If any silvery fish may be seen.

A glorious sun reflects his genial ray O'er brooks and meadows so green; And the old Cleeve Hills look so gay, Bold, and grand, midst a golden sheen.

The dear little lambs are skipping about, In a circle, round as a ring, At so merry a sight, I feel, and cry out— Welcome! The first day of Spring

Answer to the "Pathless Deep"

The moon is up, the stars shine bright Athwart the harbour bar, And their pure and silvery light,— Ne'er passing cloud doth mar.

The deep, the deep, so fair and wide, The fathomless and free, 'Tis the wild and eddying tide That's ever dear to me.

Now swell the white and snowy sails— The lighthouse point is past,— And bursting from their idle brails, They bend the lofty mast.

Hurrah! hurrah! can dusty land, With its verdant quiet lea, E'en show, I ween, a bolder band Than the toilers of the sea?

The Past

A rise of meadows, oh! so bright and green, With river creeping slowly all along; With hedge-rows gemmed with many a flower. Cheered by the throstle's gayest song!

And then a change comes o'er my dream, To my own dull and dusty nook; Where oft with aching head and weary brain, I toil along amidst my books.

Back comes the vision of the golden past,— Of boyhood, and my college day,— Of old familiar faces that I lov'd, Still unforgot, though pass'd away!

Oh! still amidst my waking dreams I hover O'er the noble city's ancient street; And with friends long buried, tread them Once again with busy feet!

The old hazel copse I loved so well My feet may track no more; No, the grand old city, quaint and gay, Still rises as of yore!

Now forty long years have come and gone, My earliest boyhood's hopes fulfilled, Since first I saw those towers rise, And felt ambition's latent thrill!

Oh! time has come! and time must go!— And pleasures all have pass'd away;— Yet still from those glad seasons shine Mem'ries too bright to know decay!

Harold, the Wanderer

Is there aught that Ernold can do or say To clear thy path, and smooth thy rugged way?" These words he spoke with such a gentle grace, That Harold gazed in the kind speaker's face, And thought some angel from the sky Had flown from thence to earth, and hovered nigh! As the sun light fell on his flaxen hair, His form seemed so beautiful, bright, and fair: His clear grey eye, so calm and mild, And around his face, played a winning smile. Harold told him how he had left his home, O'er the wide world a lonely wand'rer to roam, Regardless of all earthly bonds and ties; And of his mother spoke with tears and sighs!— "Harold," cried Ernold, "I will be your friend; Wherever thy wandering steps may tend."

Time flies by, and-the surging channels past, The ocean broad is gained at last; New hopes now play in Harold's hazel eye, His heart is light, and now no longer sighs; New thoughts, new hopes, can find a rest In his young and ardent breast. His trouble o'er, he can now happy be As he sails on the broad and boundless sea!

'Twas midnight, when o'er the vessel's side, two figures leant, Watching the phosphorescent lights that were o'er the ocean sent. Admidst the cordage the night winds softly play, And the moon-beams are dancing in their fitful way. The lovely southern cross gleams in the azure sky And Orion's bright belt salutes their watchful eye, All peaceful, fair, calm, and so serene, And seem more beautiful than summer's noon-tide dream. "Oh! Harold, how I love these heavenly tropic scenes!— They seem so lovely, and to me so serene In their lone beauty; so calm and still,— Nothing so much on earth speaks of the Almighty will As this grand, yet lone, and pathless deep, When the moon and stars their midnight vigils keep." "Oh! Ernold, I also love these splendid tropic nights; They seem to me so beautious, fair, and bright."

The morning came, all was bright and fair, The albatross was wheeling in the upper air, With eagle eye its ward and watch to keep,

O'er the face of the calm and quiet deep. The glorious sun's first golden rays O'er the bright waters danced and played. The noble ship, like a tired gull at rest, On the broad ocean's boundless breast, Her canvass flapped against the mast, As the slightest breeze came past, To rouse her from that quiet sleep. And, as Harold watched the tranquil deep He thought of his mother and his home, And wondered he had ever learnt to roam. Oh! how he longed to wander o'er his native hill side, The valley so green so beautiful, and wide,— To hear the tinkling of sheep bells o'er the lea, And mark the faint blue line o'er the distant sea. Then young Harold gave a long drawn sigh, And the tear drops fell, yet he knew not why. As a light breeze came gently past, The drooping sails fly out from the mast; Then there came the sailor's fitful song, And swiftly the vessel flies along. Back she flings the glittering spray, As the good ship pursues her lonely way.

'Tis evening, and Harold is watching the gathering clouds,

And the thunder reverberates long and loud; Neither moon nor stars in the heavens are seen, But in the far west the fork'd lightening's gleam. The stormy petrel, startled from his rest, Skims o'er the rising billows' foaming crest. "Ernold," said he, "this bodes a fearful night, There's not a star our course to guide or light!— Oh! Ernold, how I fear the tempestuous blast, And I shudder as each rising wave comes past!" "Remember, Harold, there is One that ever keeps A watchful eye on all when on the pathless deep." Now there comes the storm's first piercing wail,— A moment!—and the vessel flies before the gale! Around her yards St. Elmo's fitful fires play, As with bare poles she speeds upon her way. Now she mounts some giant wave Yawning as though 'twould be her grave. Back the glittering foam she throws, Then sinking in the billows trough, And dashing back the cloud of spray, Once more speeds on her lonely way. A thunder peal!—A lurid flash!— The tall mast falls with a sudden crash; Then o'er her sweeps a mountain wave,— Carrying young Ernold to a sailor's grave! A shriek rings through the raging storm,

As the waters close o'er his dying form. 'Tis vain that Harold springs to save Poor Ernold from his ocean grave!— With a tearful eye he listens to the wild surge, Chanting his lost companion's dirge: The drops that glitter on his cheek, Of all his heartfelt grief bespeak. Deeply he mourns his lost companion's fate And his own lonely and friendless state. For three long days they flew before the storm, And by the ocean currents swiftly borne; The gale still raging, all was dark and drear,— No human arm, or kindly help was near. Sea after sea now dashing o'er her deck, Threatening each moment to make the poor ship a wreck. Her sails now torn by the fearful blast, The winds howling hideously thro' cordage and mast. Now struck by a sea, which made every timber quake, A fearful shriek was heard, as over-board went our mate,— Like a bird she still flew o'er each mountain wave, All anxiously hoping their lives might be saved,— When the watch cried aloud "There are breakers a-head,"—

Their hearts within sunk, feeling nigh dead! Engulphed in the billows, dashed a wreck on the shore, Poor Harold lay senseless as if ne'er to rise more,

When Harold revived, the gale was o'er, The winds were hushed, the waters raged no more; The sea, now calm, broke gently on the beach; He watched the gulls fly almost within his reach. As he sat on a rock, that long unhappy day, Upon his bare head the sun poured down its scorching ray;— His brain on fire, hideous objects pass'd before his eyes,— Horrid sounds too he fancied, mingling with fearful cries! His mind now wand'ring, oft his mother's name would cry, Then ask her hand.—"Your hand, dear mother! near you I would die."

The day past by, night came and went, And yet no earthly aid was sent; For three long nights, and two long days, Harold lingered in this fearful way, Until he almost envied his comrades' graves

Beneath the bright and sparkling waves. The third day he arose from his rocky bed, With the sun still scorching his shelterless head. He gazed o'er the sea, and to his joy saw a ship, And cries of delight, burst from his parched lip; His heart almost sunk as he heard himself speak, As his voice had become so fearfully weak!— Oh! he watched the good ship, as onward she came, It gave him new strength;—his hopes were not vain. Near and still nearer, to the rock she drew; A boat is let down, manned with a gallant crew;— Raising himself up, breathing a heartfelt prayer, Thanking God from his soul, that his life had been spared. Saved from danger! Death! and wreck, Once more he treads a good ship's deck,— Bright Hope has wove her golden web As the future lies before him spread. In the fairest colours gaily drest, New objects excite his ardent breast; And Harold, from his earliest youth, Had sought in every legend truth; Yet did not appear to understand The width that fancy's dreams could span. He loved to hear the seamen tell Of the rash "Whistler's" dreaded spell;

And of the "Phantom Frigate's" form, That shot like an arrow through the storm; When the wild winds come sweeping past Bending before it the stoutest mast!— Amidst the wild roar of the deep and sky, The harbinger of woe comes sweeping by; With well braced yards, and well filled sails, The "Phantom Ship" flies before the gale!

Time flies on, the boundless ocean past, And Little Free Town is gained at last. There it lies, both fair and bright, Draped in a flood of golden light. When the sun's first brilliant rays Gild the waters as they play, The lovely river flowing calmly down, With luxuriant meadows for miles around;— While the passing clouds find a rest On some distant hilly crest,— Surrounded with every thing so green, Made all as lovely as a summer's dream.

<>PART THE SECOND.

FAREWELL, to Africa; farewell to thy forests dark and drear;

Another land I seek, and another hemisphere, Where broad majestic rivers flow, And the lovely orchis delights to grow, Amidst the wild luxuriant forest green, By human eye scarce ever seen; Or where the monstrous condor roves, Midst the lofty Andes' everlasting snows! Once more alone on the boundless deep,— The winds just risen from their sleep, The land long faded away on the lee— Harold's once more on the wide, wide sea; Not a friend to guide, comfort, or stay The youthful wanderer on his weary way. Three months having fled, the Atlantic past, Rio's lovely bays are gained at last. The tropic breeze comes sweet and soft, And Harold now seats himself aloft, Watches the constant changing scenes below, The small skiffs darting to and fro, White homesteads scattered thro' the trees That wave and rustle in the gentle breeze. Now taking a glimpse of some far bay, Or mountain ravine, too far away. Thro' this glorious scene glides the noble ship, Till the anchor falls with a sudden dip, And now at rest she safely lay,