Page:Poems and essays (IA poemsessays00howerich).pdf/46
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Sable Island.
For, though Acadia's sons may stray at times
To lands more fruitful, and to milder climes,
Still, though the flowers may richer odour breathe,
And, overhead, the vines their tendrils wreathe,
Though the sun's constant and screnest ray
O'er scenes of beauty fondly loves to stray-
Though all that's fairest falls from Nature's hand,
The exile pines to tread his native land;
Her rocky mountains, and her wintry storms,
Her fertile valleys, and her lovely forms,
Crowd on the mind with dreams of mighty power,
And chcer his heart in many a lonely hour.
To lands more fruitful, and to milder climes,
Still, though the flowers may richer odour breathe,
And, overhead, the vines their tendrils wreathe,
Though the sun's constant and screnest ray
O'er scenes of beauty fondly loves to stray-
Though all that's fairest falls from Nature's hand,
The exile pines to tread his native land;
Her rocky mountains, and her wintry storms,
Her fertile valleys, and her lovely forms,
Crowd on the mind with dreams of mighty power,
And chcer his heart in many a lonely hour.
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SABLE ISLAND.
Dark Isle of Mourning—aptly art thou named,
For thou hast been the cause of many a tear;
For deeds of treacherous strife too justly famed,
The Atlantic's charnel-desolate and drear;
A thing none love-though wand'ring thousands fear—
If for a moment rests the Muse's wing
Where through the waves thy sandy wastes appear,
'Tis that she may one strain of horror sing,
Wild as the dashing waves that tempests o'er thee fling.
For thou hast been the cause of many a tear;
For deeds of treacherous strife too justly famed,
The Atlantic's charnel-desolate and drear;
A thing none love-though wand'ring thousands fear—
If for a moment rests the Muse's wing
Where through the waves thy sandy wastes appear,
'Tis that she may one strain of horror sing,
Wild as the dashing waves that tempests o'er thee fling.
The winds have been thy minstrels—the rent shrouds
Of hapless barks, twanging at dead of night,
Thy fav'rite harp strings—the shriek of crowds
Clinging around them feebly in their fright,
Of hapless barks, twanging at dead of night,
Thy fav'rite harp strings—the shriek of crowds
Clinging around them feebly in their fright,