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Title: The Homeward Bound
Author: John S. Adams [
More Titles by Adams]
SLOWLY he paced the vessel's whitened deck,
While thoughts of hours, and days, and scenes long past,
Brought forth from fountains well-nigh dry a tear:
For in imagination he could see
Himself a tiny boy, in childish sport
Upon a river's bank, quite near his home,
Chasing the butterfly, whose gaudy dress
Lured him away, till, wearied with the chase,
Upon some mossy stone he sat him down;
Or, in some rippling brook, beneath the shade
Of some tall oak, he bathed his parched brow;
Then up he sprang, retraced his wandering steps,
Yet heedless ran, and could not leave his play.
And since that day what scenes had he passed through,
What trials met, what sights his eyes beheld!
Beneath the burning skies of torrid zones,
On frozen banks of Nova Zembla's coast,
Or the more fertile climes of Italy;
There, where the luscious grape in fulness hangs,
And fields of roses yield a rich perfume;
'Mid orange-groves whence sweetest odors rise,
'Neath branches burdened with their fragrant fruit,
Forth he had wandered.
Mark the semblance now!
For much there is between his childish course
Upon the river's bank and his later
Wanderings. Then, he chased the butterfly. Now,
His inclination led to a pursuit
More bold, adventurous, and far more grand.
Ambition filled his soul. Sometimes he ran
In vain; and so it was in boyhood's days;
And thus 't is plainly seen that childhood hours
Are but an index of our future life,
And life an index of that yet to come.
As on the vessel swept, a tear would 'scape
Forth from its hidden cell, and trickle down
The sailor's deeply-furrowed cheek, to bathe
Those recollections with the dew of Thought!
Some deem it weak to weep. Away the thought!
It is not weakness when Affection's fount
O'erflows its borders, and to man displays
The feelings that its powers cannot conceal.
It is not weakness when our feeble words
Find utterance only in our flowing tears.
Call not such language "weakness"! Worlds may laugh,
Yet know no joy like that which often flows
In silent tears.
As nearer drew the seaman to his home,
As in the distance first he saw the spot
Where childhood's hours in happiness were spent,
His slow pace quickened to a faster walk,
And, had he had the power, he'd walked the waves,
And bravely dashed the intrusive spray aside,
To reach the much-loved spot more rapidly
Than wind and tide urged on his noble bark.
[The end]
John S. Adams's poem: Homeward Bound
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