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OCTOBER, 1818.

 

 Many a green isle needs must be
 

 In the deep wide sea of Misery,
 

 Or the mariner, worn and wan,
 

 Never thus could voyage on--
 

 Day and night, and night and day,             5
 

 Drifting on his dreary way,
 

 With the solid darkness black
 

 Closing round his vessel's track:
 

 Whilst above the sunless sky,
 

 Big with clouds, hangs heavily,              10
 

 And behind the tempest fleet
 

 Hurries on with lightning feet,
 

 Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
 

 Till the ship has almost drank
 

 Death from the o'er-brimming deep;             15
 

 And sinks down, down, like that sleep
 

 When the dreamer seems to be
 

 Weltering through eternity;
 

 And the dim low line before
 

 Of a dark and distant shore                20
 

 Still recedes, as ever still
 

 Longing with divided will,
 

 But no power to seek or shun,
 

 He is ever drifted on
 

 O'er the unreposing wave                  25
 

 To the haven of the grave.
 

 What, if there no friends will greet;
 

 What, if there no heart will meet
 

 His with love's impatient beat;
 

 Wander wheresoe'er he may,                 30
 

 Can he dream before that day
 

 To find refuge from distress
 

 In friendship's smile, in love's caress?
 

 Then 'twill wreak him little woe
 

 Whether such there be or no:                35
 

 Senseless is the breast, and cold,
 

 Which relenting love would fold;
 

 Bloodless are the veins and chill
 

 Which the pulse of pain did fill;
 

 Every little living nerve                 40
 

 That from bitter words did swerve
 

 Round the tortured lips and brow,
 

 Are like sapless leaflets now
 

 Frozen upon December's bough.