8
Still my fancy can discover
Sunny spots where friends may dwell;—
Darker shadows round us hover—
Isle of beauty! fare-thee-well!
'Tis the hour when happy faces
Smile around the taper's light;—
Who will fill our vacant places?
Who will sing our songs to-night?
Through the mist that floats above us
Faintly sounds the vesper bell,
Like a voice from those who love us,
Breathing fondly, "Fare-thee-well!"
When the waves are round me breaking,
As I pace the deck alone,
And my eye in vain is seeking
Some green leaf to rest upon,—
What would I not give to wander
Where my old companions dwell;
Absence makes the heart grow fonder;—
Isle of beauty! fare-thee-well!
MY OWN NATIVE ISLE.
Music by Bishop.
There's an isle, clasped by waves in an emerald zone,
That peers forth from ocean so pearl-like and fair,
As if nature meant it the water-king's throne;—
A youth, whom I name not, remembers me there.
The breeze now in murmurs a 'plaint brings from far,
From my own native isle and my lover's guitar.
O! cheer thee, fond mourner, let hope's whisper soften
The wild pang of absence and doubt too unkind,
The maid thou upbraidest for thee sighs as often,
And speeds gentle wishes by every wind.
Then, winds, blow ye homeward—waves, waft me afar
To my own native isle and my lover's guitar.
