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The warm feeble breeze scarcely ripples the ocean, 

 And all seems so hush'd, all so happy to feel ! 



So smooth glides the bark, I perceive not her motion, 

 While low sings the sailor who watches the wheel. 



That sailor I've noted — his cheek, fresh and blooming 

 With health, scarcely yet twenty springs can have 

 seen ; 



His looks they are lofty, but never presuming, 



His limbs strong, but light, and undaunted his mien. 



Frank and clear is his brow, yet a thoughtful expression, 

 Half tender, half mournful, oft shadows his eye; 



And murmurs escape him, which make the confession, 

 If not check'd by a hem, they had swell'd to a sigh. 



His song is not pour 'd to beguile the lone hour, 

 When mid-watch on deck 'tis his duty to keep ; 



Nor of painful reflection to weaken the power, 

 Nor chase from his eyelids the pinions of sleep. 



'Tis so sad . . . 'tis so sweet . . . and some tones come so 

 swelling, 



So right from the heart, and so pure to the ear; — 

 That sure at this moment his thoughts must be dwelling 

 On one who is absent, most kind and most dear. 



Perhaps on a mother his mind loves to linger, 



Whose wants to relieve, the rough seas hath he 

 cross 'd ; 



Who kiss'd him at parting, and vow'd he could bring her 

 No jewel so dear as the one she then lost ! 



No, no ! 'tis a sweetheart, his soul's cherish'd treasure, 

 Those full melting notes . . . hark ! he breathes them 

 again ! 



So mournful, and yet they're prolong'd with such plea- 

 sure 



Oh, nothing but love could have prompted the strain. 



