Now the sad farewell, and the long good-night;
For see!—­his friends come hast’ning to the beach,
And now the gunwale is within the reach: 
“Adieu!—­farewell!—­remember!”—­and what more
Affection taught, was utter’d from the shore. 
But Judith left them with a heavy heart,
Took a last view, and went to weep apart. 
And now his friends went slowly from the place,
Where she stood still, the dashing oar to trace,
Till all were silent!—­for the youth she pray’d,
And softly then return’d the weeping maid. 
   They parted, thus by hope and fortune led,
And Judith’s hours in pensive pleasure fled;
But when return’d the youth?—­the youth no more
Return’d exulting to his native shore;
But forty years were past, and then there came
A worn-out man with wither’d limbs and lame,
His mind oppress’d with woes, and bent with age his frame. 
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay. 
In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach: 
He was alone; he press’d the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace: 
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,
So fond, so tender, and so much afraid;
And on that spot, through many years, his mind
Turn’d mournful back, half sinking, half resign’d. 
   No one was present; of its crew bereft,
A single boat was in the billows left;
Sent from some anchor’d vessel in the bay,
At the returning tide to sail away. 
O’er the black stern the moonlight softly play’d,
The loosen’d foresail flapping in the shade;
All silent else on shore; but from the town
A drowsy peal of distant bells came down: 
From the tall houses here and there, a light
Served some confused remembrance to excite: 
“There,” he observed, and new emotions felt,
“Was my first home—­and yonder Judith dwelt;
Dead! dead are all!  I long—­I fear to know,”
He said, and walk’d impatient, and yet slow. 
   Sudden there broke upon his grief a noise
Of merry tumult and of vulgar joys: 
Seamen returning to their ship, were come,
With idle numbers straying from their home;
Allen among them mix’d, and in the old
Strove some familiar features to behold;
While fancy aided memory:  —­“Man! what cheer?”
A sailor cried; “Art thou at anchor here?”
Faintly he answer’d, and then tried to trace
Some youthful features in some aged face: 
A swarthy matron he beheld, and thought
She might unfold the very truths he sought: 
Confused and trembling, he the dame address’d: 
“The Booths! yet live they?” pausing and oppress’d;
Then spake again:  —­“Is there no ancient man,
David his name?—­assist me, if you can. —
Flemings there were—­and Judith, doth she live?”
The woman gazed, nor could an answer give,’
Yet wond’ring stood, and all were silent by,