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The Sailor’s Dream of Home.
57
And our ship drives on like a silent ghost
Just at cockcrow too, for I hear his patrol;
Oh, what is the name of this fading coast,
And whose are the voices I heard, O Soul?
Just at cockcrow too, for I hear his patrol;
Oh, what is the name of this fading coast,
And whose are the voices I heard, O Soul?
II.
When I was a child I used to fear the stars,
Those ancient presences, so white and cold.
But now, to-night, they seem, thro’ cloudy bars,
Pleadingly looking on our dusky fold.
Those ancient presences, so white and cold.
But now, to-night, they seem, thro’ cloudy bars,
Pleadingly looking on our dusky fold.
In all their pilgrimage, their starry strife,
They have seen nothing fairer, more divine,
Than this low hearth where burns the spark of life,
This flower-strewed barrow where we fret and pine.
They have seen nothing fairer, more divine,
Than this low hearth where burns the spark of life,
This flower-strewed barrow where we fret and pine.
Here, where the trembling note of mother-bird
And broken words of human love are heard;
And all our knowledge comes to this.—Some day
A messenger will touch us from the deep,
And, softer than a mother’s voice, will say,
‘It is not morning yet. Sleep, gently sleep.’
And broken words of human love are heard;
And all our knowledge comes to this.—Some day
A messenger will touch us from the deep,
And, softer than a mother’s voice, will say,
‘It is not morning yet. Sleep, gently sleep.’