  Away, away! The plains of Ind Have set their victim free; I give my sorrows to the wind, My sun-hat to the sea; And, standing with a chosen few, I watch a dying glow, The passing of the Finest View That all the world can show. It would not fire an artist's eye, This View whereof I sing; Poets, no doubt, would pass it by As quite a common thing; The Tourist with belittling sniff Would find no beauties there— He couldn't if he would, and if He could he wouldn't care. Only for him that turns the back On dark and evil days It throws a glory down his track That sets his heart ablaze; A charm to make the wounded whole, Which wearied eyes may draw Luxuriously through the soul, Like cocktails through a straw. I have seen strong men moved to tears When gazing o'er the deep, Hard men, whom I have known for years, Nor dreamt that they could weep; Even myself, though stern and cold Beyond the common line, Cannot, for very joy, withhold The tribute of my brine. Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views! I leave thee to thy pain, And, while I have the power to choose, We shall not meet again; My fancies oft will turn Back to the Finest Sight on Earth, The Bombay Lights—astern! |
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