O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in,
          Yet not to me! 
To the beauty of God’s bright creation my bosom is frozen! 
          Nought can I see,
Since she has departed—­the dear one, the loved one, the chosen,
          Over the sea!

Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle,
          Pleasant to see! 
Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle,
          When near to thee! 
Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel
          Over the sea!

Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth,
          The summer shall be
Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth,
          Vainly for me! 
No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth
          Over the sea!

Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth
          Flowers to the bee;
Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth
          Fruits on the tree,
Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth
          Over the sea!

OH!  HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.

Oh! had I the wings of a bird,
  To soar through the blue, sunny sky,
By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? 
  To what beautiful land should I fly? 
Would the gorgeous East allure,
  With the light of its golden eyes,
Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm,
  Waves with its feathery leaves? 
      Ah! no! no! no! 
        I heed not its tempting glare;
      In vain should I roam from my island home,
        For skies more fair!

Should I seek a southern sea,
  Italia’s shore beside,
Where the clustering grape from tree to tree
  Hangs in its rosy pride? 
My truant heart, be still,
  For I long have sighed to stray
Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy’s bowers. 
  By the shores of its southern bay. 
      But no! no! no! 
        Though bright be its sparkling seas,
      I never would roam from my island home,
        For charms like these!

Should I seek that land so bright,
  Where the Spanish maiden roves,
With a heart of love and an eye of light,
  Through her native citron groves? 
Oh! sweet would it be to rest
  In the midst of the olive vales,
Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes
  The breath of the balmy gales! 
      But no! no! no!—­
        Though sweet be its wooing air,
      I never would roam from my island home,
        To scenes though fair!

Should I pass from pole to pole? 
  Should I seek the western skies,
Where the giant rivers roll,
  And the mighty mountains rise? 
Or those treacherous isles that lie
  In the midst of the sunny deeps,
Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands,
  And the dread tornado sweeps! 
      Ah! no! no! no! 
        They have no charms for me;
      I never would roam from my island home,
        Though poor it be!