But dreams must change; and now they wake To run on coffee and beef-steak; The latest 'Picayune,' and then A southern climate, to read it in; A flower or two, a light and table, To make the thing more passable; A sea-coal fire, a Tremont-bath-- All the dear _comforts_ Boston hath In such rich store; and _her's_ so much, No other rail-road leads to such: But some, with stubborn memories Of last night's ugly-sounding seas, The few, with stomachs out of tone, Dream every thing; but, senses gone, Have no distinct conception what, Save a fire, and a bed, and something hot, In (oh, so like a home to one!) The pleasant rooms at the Albion. IV. ALL night long, in the outer bay, The ships have rocked with the lazy sea, Off and on, with a slow chasseé, And all night long, on top of the mist, The stars have danced unceasingly, And the moon has smiled her prettiest; Yet not one ray has wandered by: Oh! when shall we have a brighter sky! The wind is light and the light is dim, But a single star worn pale and slim, As though the journey had wearied him, Has just come down from Heaven, to say That the Sun is coming up this way, With promise of a gala-day. Great wonder had been, up there, he says, That Boston lay so long in a haze; And strange they hadn't invented a way, Some patent or other, to blow it away; No'th-East by East had gone ashore Below, some twenty leagues or more; He had weathered the Cape about midnight, And was taking a nap, to come up bright; An hour, or two at the most, and he Would bring the bloom of the orange-tree, And swear it was just from Florida, Caught last night at the fall of the dew; He left as the stars came out of the blue, And shunning the breath of the land, by sea Has kept all fresh it fragrancy. Thus spake, or looked the star, and soon The air is soft as a breeze in June; The sun comes down by way of the moon, And all the sister stars and brothers, And other lights, if there _are_ others, Mars, and his Tiger,[C] _all_ are out; And right glad they look, as about to shout, At sight again, their right good will On Boston heights and Bunker Hill: And Bunker Hill's great Orator,'[D] Catching a ray from every star, Binds him a chaplet of Thirteen, And silent, smiles upon the scene. The mists have gone off silently, And scarcely whispered their good-bye; They have crept away with a stealthy roll, Like the gathering of a noiseless scroll; You may see them yet, as they glide away, And hang their curtains about the bay; While the pointed seas flash out between, Like the spears of a host, in battle seen; Or lift their white caps, one by one, A welcome to the rising sun: A moment's hush, on sea and air, Still, as an angel passing were,