The scene was more beautiful far, to my eye,
Than if day in its pride had array'd it;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the Spirit that made it.

The murmur arose, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy waves' playful motion;
From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers;
The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girded nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers.

I sigh'd as I look'd from the hill's gentle slope;
All hush'd was the billows' commotion;
And I thought that the beacon look'd lovely as hope
That star or life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow.

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the soul's last emotion,
O then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean!