WHEN we were children, at our will,
That vanished summer blithe and free,
Dear shipmate! how we loved to float
Thro’ wind and calm, in a little boat,
All alone on the sparkling sea!
One morn, defying storms we sailed
And sang our Credo, you and I—
“Beyond the foam, the surge, the mist,
The sea-fog’s moving amethyst,
The peaceful fairy islands lie.”
And far we urged the forward prow,
Half-mad with longing as we hied;
Yet at the sunset’s dying glow
Faint-hearted, ceased, and homewards so
Came meekly with the evening tide.
Surely, the Isles of Rest were near!
Why did our childish ardor tire?
Now more, oh, more the thousandth time!
We thirst for that celestial clime,
We hunger with that old desire.
Some day, when we shall sail again,
The home-lights late indeed may burn;
Let signals flutter on the shore,
Let tides creep up to the open door,
But with no tide shall we return.