Swallows, on your pinions glide
O'er the restless, rolling tide
Of the ocean deep and wide.
Farewell!
In groves, far, far away,
In summer's sunny ray,
In warmer regions dwell;
And then return to tell
Strange tales of foreign lands;
In bands,
Perched on the eaves! Farewell!
Swallows, I could almost pray That I, like you, might fly away; And to each coming evil say Farewell!
Yet, 'tis my fate to live
Here, and with troubles strive;
And I some day may tell
How they before me fell,
Conquered; then calmly die,
And cry-
"Trials and toils, farewell!"
TOM-are you still within this land
Of livers-still on Hastings' sand,
Or roaming on the waves;
Or has some billow o'er you rolled,
Jealous that earth should lap so bold
A seaman in her graves?
On land the rush-light lives of men
Go out but slowly; nine in ten,
By tedious long decline-
Not so the jolly sailor sinks,
Who founders in the wave, and drinks
The apoplectic brine!
Ay, while I write, mayhap your head
Is sleeping on an oyster-bed-
I hope 'tis far from truth !—
With periwinkle eyes;-your bone
Beset with mussels, not your own,
And corals at your tooth!
Still does the Chance pursue the chance
The main affords-the Aidant dance
In safety on the tide?
Still flies that sign of my good-will
A little bunting thing—but still
To thee a flag of pride?
Does that hard, honest hand now clasp
The tiller in its careful grasp-
With every summer breeze
When ladies sail, in lady-fear-
Or, tug the oar, a gondolier
On smooth Macadam seas?
Or are you where the flounders keep,
Some dozen briny fathoms deep,
Where sand and shells abound-
With some old Triton on your chest,
And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest,
To find that you are-drowned?
Swift is the wave, and apt to bring
A sudden doom-perchance I sing
A mere funereal strain;
You have endured the utter strife-
And are the same in death or life,
A good man in the main !
Oh, no-I hope the old brown eye
Still watches ebb, and flood, and sky;
That still the old brown shoes
Are sucking brine up-pumps indeed!
Your tooth still full of ocean weed,
Or Indian-which you choose.
I like you, Tom! and in these lays
Give honest worth its honest praise,
No puff at honor's cost;
For though you met these words of mine,
All letter-learning was a line
You, somehow, never crossed!
Mayhap we ne'er shall meet again,
Except on that Pacific main,
Beyond this planet's brink;
Yet as we erst have braved the weather,
Still may we float awhile together,
As comrades on this ink!
Many a scudding gale we've had
Together, and, my gallant lad,
Some perils we have passed;
When huge and black the wave careered,
And oft the giant surge appeared
The master of our mast:
"Twas thy example taught me how
To climb the billow's hoary brow,
Or cleave the raging heap-
To bound along the ocean wild,
With danger only as a child,
The waters rocked to sleep.
Oh, who can tell that brave delight,
To see the hissing wave in might,
Come rampant like a snake!
To leap his horrid crest, and feast
One's eyes upon the briny beast,
Left couchant in the wake!
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