Against The bulwarks

The ocean heaves around us still With long and measured swell, The autumn gales our canvas fill, Our ship rides smooth and well. The broad Atlantic's bed of foam Still breaks against our prow; I shed no tears at quitting home, Nor will I shed them now! Against the bulwarks on the poop I lean, and watch the sun Behind the red horizon stoop His race is nearly run. Those waves will never quench his light, O'er which they seem to close, To-morrow he will rise as bright As he this morning rose. How brightly gleams the orb of day Across the trackless sea! How lightly dance the waves that play Like dolphins in our lee! The restless waters seem to say, In smothered tones to me, How many thousand miles away My native land must be! Speak, Ocean! is my Home the same Now all is new to me? The tropic sky's resplendent flame, The vast expanse of sea? Does all around her, yet unchanged, The well-known aspect wear? Oh! can the leagues that I have ranged Have made no difference there? How vivid Recollection's hand Recalls the scene once more! I see the same tall poplars stand Beside the garden door; I see the bird-cage hanging still; And where my sister set The flowers in the window-sill Can they be living yet?