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The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, As glad to waft him from his native home; And fast the white rocks faded from his view, And soon were lost in circumambient foam : And then, it may be, of his wish to roam Repented he, but in his bosom slept The silent thought, nor from his lips did come One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.
But when the sun was sinking in the sea,
He seized his harp, which he at times could string,
And strike, albeit with untaught melody,
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening:
And now his fingers o'er it did he fling, And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, And fleeting shores receded from his sight, Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good Night."
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon
follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good Night!
'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
And have no friend, save these alone,
'My father bless'd me fervently,
"Come hither, hither, my stanch
Or shiver at the gale ?”
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.
My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?'
"For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that clains a tear.
"And now I'm in the world alone,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,
He 'd tear me where he stands.
"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves !
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and
ye caves !
My native Land-Good Night!"
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ;
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.
Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold !
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword
But whoso entereth within this town,
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,
Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born ʼmidst noblest scenes-
Than those whereof such things the bard relates,
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,
The vine on high, the willow branch below,
Then slowly climb the many-winding way,
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,
And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
and glen with thousand such are rife Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.'
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,
When wanton wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, Meek peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.