'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one
Who had to turn to paths of care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent therc,
No more unto thy shores to come,
But on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.
Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest
Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears, For though but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But when indeed they come, divine,
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!