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Written In Illness

Caroline Clive

My bark floats on the sea of death,
Of deepening waves the sport;
And dull disease, with heavy breath,
Impels me from the port.

Wide and unknown, the ocean surge
Outstretches to my ken;
Oh! when I reach yon cloudy verge,
What sights will meet me then?

Thee, native wood, full well I know;
And as thy shores recede,
Mine eyes still wander from the prow,
Thy well-known forms to read.

There shines the light that first I knew,
The scenes that light displayed;
From which my soul the feelings drew,
Whereof itself was made.

There lie the shapes of joys and ills,
Which mov'd erewhile my mind;
Like storms and suns upon the hills
The traveller leaves behind.

But still receding, wafted on,
All indistinct they grow;
The busy crowd that moves thereon
To me is silent now.

Its glittering ray mine eye escapes,
The mists are round me furl'd;
Farewell, farewell, ye human shapes!
Farewell, my native world!

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