LIFE OF JAMES DWIGHT DANA 



In other days, she loved to glide 



O'er Hudson's bosom bright and still ; 



And float along the tranquil tide, 

 By craggy steep and sloping hill. 



Now, like a land-bird, blown away 



By tempests from its happy nest, 

 She flies before the whirling spray, 



To seek this dreary place of rest. 



The night-air through her cordage sings : 

 Her sides the drowsy waters lave, 



As, like a gull with folded wings, 

 She lightly sits upon the wave, 



While overhead, a holy sign, 



The southern cross, is in the sky, 



Assurance that an eye divine 

 Watches the exile from on high. 



II 



The braying penguin sounds his horn, 

 And flights of cormorants are screaming 



Their croaking welcome to the morn, 

 Athwart the frozen mountains gleaming. 



Fleet as the tern that wakeful springs 

 From stunted beech or blighted willow, 



Our little Thulia spreads her wings, 

 And off she skims across the billow. 



A fairer morning, o'er the face 

 Of wintry region, never smiled ; 



And, mid the ripples at its base, 

 The stormy Cape itself looks mild. 



With hopes elate, and hearts that spurn 

 All thought of fearing wind or waves, 



The eager rovers southward turn, 

 To seek new space for human graves. 



Ah ! had the primal sin, that bore 



The doom of death, but made us wise, 



Not now for luxury or lore 



Would man give up his Paradise ; 



378 



