LIVERPOOL.
Where are they bound, those gallant ships,
That here at anchor lie,
Now quiet as the sleeping birds,
Beneath a summer sky?
Their white wings droop, their shadows rest,
Unbroken on the deep,
As if the airy elements
Had their own hour of sleep.
A little while the wind will rise,
And every ship will be,
With plashing prow, and shining sail,
Afar upon the sea.
Some will go east, and some go west,
Some to the Indian isles,
Where spring is lavish of her bloom,
And summer of her smiles;
And some will seek the latitudes
Where northern breezes blow,
And winter builds a throne of ice
Upon a world of snow:
Some will come back with plume, and pearl,
The attar, and the gem;
Little do the gay wearers think
How brave men toil for them.
The product of far distant lands,
Nurst by far distant skies,
Are here the triumph and reward
Of human enterprise.
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