Song of an Exile

In Ireland 'tis evening — from toil my friends hie all,
And weary walk home o'er the dew-spangled lea ;
The shepherd in love tunes his grief-soothing viol,
Or visits the maid that his partner will be ;
The blithe milkmaid trips to the herd that stands lowing ;
The west richly smiles, and the landscape is glowing ;
The sad-sounding curfew, and torrent fast-flowing,
Are heard by my fancy, though far, far at sea !

What has my eye seen since I left the green valleys,
But ships as remote as the prospect could be ;
Unwieldy, huge monsters, as ugly as malice ;
And floats of some wreck, which with sorrow I see ?
What is seen but the fowl, that its lonely flight urges ;
The lightning, that darts through the sky-meeting surges ;
And the sad-scowling sky, that with bitter rain scourges
This cheek care sits drooping on, far, far at sea ?

How hideous the hold is ! — Here, children are screaming —
There, dames faint through thirst, with their babes on their knee !
Here, down every hatch the big breakers are streaming,
And there, with a crash, half the fixtures break free !
Some court, some contend, some sit dull stories telling ;
The mate's mad and drunk, and the tars tasked and yelling ,
What sickness and sorrow pervade my rude dwelling ! —
A huge, floating lazar-house, far, far at sea !

How changed all may be when I seek the sweet village
A hedgerow may bloom where its street used to be ;
The floors of my friends may be tortured by tillage,
And the upstart be served by the fallen grandee ;
The axe may have humbled the grove that I haunted,
And shades be my shield that as yet are unplanted,
Nor one comrade live who repined when he wanted
The sociable sufferer that's far, far at sea !

In Ireland 'tis night — on the flowers of my setting
A parent may kneel, fondly praying for me ;
The village is smokeless — the red moon is getting
That hill for a throne which I hope yet to see.
If innocence thrive, many more have to grieve for ;
Success, slow but sure, I'll contentedly live for ;
Yes, Sylvia, we'll meet, and your sigh cease to heave for
The swain your fine image haunts, far, far at sea !