And beyond that, the Atlantic wide!—
All round, no soul, no boat, no hail;
But, on the horizon's verge descried,
Hangs, touched with light, one snowy sail.
Ah! where is he who should have come20
Where that far sail is passing now,
Past the Loire's mouth, and by the foam
Of Finistère's unquiet brow,—
Home, round into the English wave?—
He tarries where the Rock of Spain
Mediterranean waters lave;
He enters not the Atlantic main.
Oh, could he once have reached this air
Freshened by plunging tides, by showers!
Have felt this breath he loved, of fair
Cool Northern fields, and grass, and flowers!
He longed for it—pressed on. In vain!
At the Straits failed that spirit brave.
The South was parent of his pain,
The South is mistress of his grave.
A SOUTHERN NIGHT.
The sandy spits, the shore-locked lakes,
Melt into open, moonlit sea;
The soft Mediterranean breaks
At my feet, free.
Dotting the fields of corn and vine,
Like ghosts, the huge gnarled olives stand;
Behind, that lovely mountain line!
While, by the strand,—
