Song of the Wanderer

Song of the Wanderer

There is no peculiarity of my native New England I miss so much as the roaring of the sea.

Extract from a Letter.

The roaring sea - the roaring sea!

How would my heart rejoice

To pace again its sandy shores,

To hear its thunder voice!

I pine to see the rolling wave -

To watch its sparkling foam,

I pine to climb again thy cliffs,

My own New England home!

I list in vain to catch the tones,

Familiar to my ear,

I seek in vain to find a spot,

Like those I hold so dear;

But every scene on which I gaze

Seems drear and dull to me -

And not a sound is heard like thine,

Thou never silent sea!

What though a barren soil is thine;

What though a rockey shore;

What though a sterner - colder sky

Doth bend thy borders o'er;

What though thy snow crown'd mountains frown,

Thy piercing north-winds shill -

New England! Cradle of the storm!

I love thee deeply.

A brighter sky doth bend above -

A warmer sun doth shine -

A fairer soil doth smile around

A wandering son of thine;

But still he signs to view again

Thy Mountains - Forests - Sea -

Store-house of Freedom! fondly still

Thy son doth turn to thee!

C.P.I

1:18, p. 2

1837.05.06

From the Portland Transcript