When the blythe mariners with glowing hearts,
Guide the proud vessel to their native shore,
Then Hope the animating lay imparts,
And whispers of the rapture yet in store.
Their spreading sails the lingering breezes gain,
The airy streamers waving o'er the main;
That main, which causes many a heart to mourn,
Now softly rolls to favour their return.
Now, with the balmy summer gale they glide;
Ah! soon the seaman hopes to meet his bride.
Now, to the coast enraptur'd they advance,
While o'er the wave the setting sun-beams dance.
Now shouts of joy, impetuous joy, arise,
The cliffs of Albion meet their sparkling eyes;
With ardent cheers they hail the native shore,
"Our toil, our care, our dangers, are no more."
No more from love the mariners will roam,
But dwell with peace and festive mirth at home.
And now they spring exulting from the wave,
To meet the sacred honours of the brave;
Their friends, their loves, they welcome on the strand,
And acclamations greet them as they land.
Ah! then the tears of manly transport flow,
The tears that bid the generous bosom glow.
He who could stand by battle compass'd round,
Stand unconcern'd, nor heed the deathful wound;
He, who could boldly face the cannon's roar,
Now melts in tears, to see his native shore.
Then let my country's lasting honours crown
The brave defenders of her bright renown;
With rapture hail the heroes of the wave,
Or strew her weeping laurels on their grave.