Fleets come and go,
Carrying commerce to and fro,—
But still sits he on the sand,
And maketh firm that headland;
Mariners steer them by his light,
Safely in the darkest night:
He holds no visible communion,
For his friendship is a union.
Many men dwell far in land,
But he alone sits on the strand,
Whether he ponders men or books
Ever still he seaward looks,
Feels the sea-breeze on his cheek,
At each word the landsmen speak;
From some distant port he hears,
Of the ventures of past years,
In the sullen ocean's roar
Of wrecks upon a distant shore;
In every companion's eye
A sailing vessel doth descry;
Marine news he ever reads
And the slightest glances heeds.
Near is India to him
Though his native shore is dim,
But the bark which long was due,
Never—never—heaves in view,
Which shall put an end to commerce
And bring back what it took from us,
(Which shall make Siberia free
Of the climes beyond the sea)
Fetch the Indies in its hold,
[127]
