The Return Home, 7

We sat by the fisherman’s cottage,
O’er ocean cast our eye;
Then came the mists of evening,
And slowly rose on high.

The lamps within the light-house
Were kindled, light by light,
And in the farthest distance
A ship was still in sight.

We spoke of storm and shipwreck,
And of the sailor’s strange life,
’Twixt sky and water, ’twixt terror
And joy in endless strife.

We spoke of distant regions,
Of North and South spoke we,
The many strange races yonder,
And customs, strange to see.

The air on the Ganges is balmy,
And giant-trees extend,
And fair and silent mortals
Before the lotos bend.

In Lapland, the people are dirty,
Flat-headed, broad-mouthèd, and small;
They squat round the fire, bake fishes,
And squeak, and speak shrilly, and squall.

The maidens earnestly listen’d,
At length not a word was said;
The ship from sight had vanish’d,
For darkness o’er all things was spread.