Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825/A Voyager's Dream of Land
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 14, Pages 77-78
A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND.
——————His very heart athirst
To gaze at nature in her green array,
Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd
With visions prompted by intense desire:
Fair fields appear below, such as he left
Far distant, such as he would die to find—
—He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more.
Cowper.
The hollow dash of waves!—the ceaseless roar!
—Silence, ye billows! vex my soul no more.
—There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam:
Oh! the gush of that fountain is sweet to hear,
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear!
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws,
Through the feathery fern, and the wild olive boughs,
And the gleam on its path, as its steals away,
Into deeper shades, from the sultry day,
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread,
They haunt me!—I dream of that bright spring's flow,
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe!
Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy changing cry!
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by.
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound
Of leaves from the lime and the chesnut round?
Know ye it, brethren! where bower'd it lies,
Under the purple of southern skies?
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines
In through the cloud of its wreathing vines,
And the breath of the fainting myrtle-flowers,
Borne from the mountains in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly's glance through the darkening shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest-glades,
And the scent of the citron at Eve's dim fall—
—Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!
Hush! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast!
Oh! the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala's mirth,
The murmurs that live in the mountain-pines,
The sighing of reeds as the day declines,
The wings flitting home through the crimson glow
That steeps the woods when the sun is low,
The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still!
—I hear them!—around me they rise, they swell,
They claim back my spirit with hope to dwell!
They come with a breath of the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime!
The white foam dashes high!—away, away,
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
—'Tis there!—down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep!
With the burden and glory of flowers they wear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
—Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods where the shadows rest
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play—
—I hear the sweet laugh of my Fount!—give way!
Give way!—the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more!