Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love, Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove; To _thee_ we turn, still faithful, from afar-- Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star! And from the martial field, the troubled sea, Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee! When ocean-sounds in awful slumber die, No wave to murmur, and no gale to sigh; Wide o’er the world when Peace and Midnight reign, And the moon trembles on the sleeping main; At that still hour, the sailor wakes to keep, Midst the dead calm, the vigil of the deep! No gleaming shores his dim horizon bound, All heaven--and sea--and solitude--around! Then, from the lonely deck, the silent helm, From the wide grandeur of the shadowy realm, Still homeward borne, his fancy unconfined, Leaving the worlds of ocean far behind, Wings like a meteor-flash her swift career, To the loved scenes, so distant, and so dear! Lo! the rude whirlwind rushes from its cave, And Danger frowns--the monarch of the wave! Lo! rocks and storms the striving bark repel, And Death and Shipwreck ride the foaming swell! Child of the ocean! is thy bier the surge, Thy grave the billow, and the wind thy dirge? Yes! thy long toil, thy weary conflict o’er, No storm shall wake, no perils rouse thee more! Yet, in that solemn hour, that awful strife, The struggling agony for death or life, E’en _then_ thy mind, embittering every pain, Retraced the image so beloved--in vain! Still to sweet Home thy last regrets were true, Life’s parting sigh--the murmur of adieu! Can war’s dread scenes the hallow’d ties efface, Each tender thought, each fond remembrance chase? Can fields of carnage, days of toil, destroy The loved impression of domestic joy?