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"With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd,
Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.
Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles
On Behrring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles,
Cold on his midnight watch, the breezes blow
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;
And waft across the waves' tumultuous roar,
The Wolf's long howl from Æonalaska's shore.
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form;
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay,
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away,
But hope can here her moon-light vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep;
Swift as yon streamer lights the stary pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul,
His native hills, that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, hi$ bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and broom-wood blossom'd vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the lov'd shore he sigh'd to leave behind,
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace,
Wipes from her cheek the rapture speaking tear,
And clasps with many a sigh his children dear!
