On Landing At Ostend

The orient beam illumes the parting oar;-- From yonder azure track, emerging white, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight, And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore. Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies: Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved, Like one for ever torn from all he loved, Back o'er the deep I turn my longing eyes, And chide the wayward passions that rebel: Yet boots it not to think, or to complain, Musing sad ditties to the reckless main. To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell Speaks of the hour that stays not--and the day To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.