David Lester Richardson (1801–1865)

THE MOUNTAIN mists now roll on sultry airs;

Unheard and slow the huge waves heave around,

That lately roared in wrath. The storm-fiend, bound

Within his unseen cave, no longer tears

The vexed and wearied main. The moon appears,

Uncurtaining wide her azure realms profound

To cheer the sullen night. Though not a sound

Reposing Nature breathes, my rapt soul hears

The far-off murmur of my native streams,

Like music from the stars. The silver tone

Is memory’s lingering echo. Ocean’s zone

Infolds me from the past. This small bark seems

The centre of the world,—an island lone;

And love’s dear forms are like departed dreams.