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The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,
But when the sun was sinking in the sea
And fleeting shores receded from his sight,
ADIEU, adieu ! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue ;
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
We follow in his flight;
My native Land-Good Night!
A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth ;
But not my mother earth.
Its hearth is desolate ; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ;
My dog howls at the gate.
“ Come hither, hither, my little page ! 8
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the gale !
Our ship is swift and strong : Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."9
“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind : 10
Am sorrowful in mind;
A mother whom I love,
But thee-and one above.
“Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,12
Why dost thou look so pale ?
Or shiver at the gale ?”-
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.
“My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
What answer shall she make ?”.
Thy grief let none gainsay ; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.”
For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour ? Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.14 For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near ; My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear. 15
And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea :
When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain,'
Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again
He'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine ;
So not again to mine.
And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !
My native Land-Good Night !!?
On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,
Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 19
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.