Sweep on, the wave is curled with foam,
Sweep on, the tide is bearing home,
Sweep on, the breeze is fair;
The sun himself hastes to the West,
Where lies the home that I love best, —
Wave, tide, and breeze may rage or rest
When I get there.

The twilight smiles upon the sea,
The stars shine out to pilot me;
And one, amidst the glare
Of all their host, —the evening star
Stoops sweetly o'er my home afar,
And says no storm my course shall mar,
Till I get there.

The list'ning of an anxious ear,
The gaze that brightens through a tear,
Out-feel the watcher's round.
I only hear the breakers roar,
I only see my own dear shore,
'T is I that soon shall tread once more
My native ground.