Behold! a troop of travellers descending to the shore
Strong, stalwart youths and maidens, mixed with those in years,
       and hoar;
With stealth they glide towards the tide like walkers in their sleep:
Where are ye going, lonely ones, that thus ye walk and weep?

No answer: but the lip compressed argues a tale to tell—
A studied silence seems to hold them bound as if a spell;
They passed me by abstractedly, their gaze where, near at hand,
Rolls through the shade the heavy wave upon the sullen strand.

Stop—whither go ye? See, behind, e’en yet the landscape smiles—
The broad sunset illumines yet these pleasant western isles—
Why, why is it that none will turn and take one look behind,
But rather face the billows there, to light and counsel blind?

Peace! questioner—we know the sun upon our soil doth rest—
Though Emigrants, we have not cast all feeling from our breast;
But still, we go—for through that shade hope gilds the distant plain,
While round the homes we’ve left we look for nourishment in vain!

Well, thou art strong; thy stubborn strength may make the desert do;
But, see! a weeping woman here—some shivering children too:
Deluded female, stop! for thee what hope beyond the tide?
For me?—and seest thou not I have my husband by my side?

And thou, too, parting! thou, my friend, that loved thy home
       and ease?
Ay— see my brothers—sisters here—what’s country without these?
But then, thy hands for toil unfit—thy frame to labour new?
What then? I work beside my friends—come thou and join our crew.

Yes, come! exclaims a reverend man—glad will we be of thee—
We go in Christian fellowship our mission o’er the sea—
I’ve left a large and happy flock, that loved me, too, full well;
Yet I take heart, as I depart where godless heathens dwell.

Alas! and is it needful then that from this ancient soil
Where wealth and honour crowned so long the hardy yeoman’s toil,
The goodliest of its offspring thus should bid the canvass swell,
And to the parent earth in troops wave their last sad farewell?

I’m answered from the swarming ports, the ever streaming tide
That pours on board a thousand ships my country’s hope and pride—
I’m answered by the fruitless toil of many a neighbour’s hand,
And the gladsome shouts of prosperous men in many a distant land.

Stay, countrymen!—e’en yet there’s time—we’ll settle all your score—
We cannot spare such honoured men—’twould grieve our hearts
        too sore;
Things will go smooth—why quit the scene a thousand things
        made dear.
That wealth may deck ye in the spoils torn from affection here?

Torn is the last embrace apart—the vessel quits the shore—
They’re waving hands from off the deck—we hear their voice no more—
God bless ye, friends! I honour ye, adventurous, noble band!
Farewell! I would not call ye now back to this wretched land!

Why not myself among ye, loved associates of my day?
Why not with you embarked to share the perils of your way?
Because, though hope may be your sun, remembrance is my star—
Farewell—I’ll die a watcher where my father’s ashes are.