In pensive mood I stood upon the quay,
Where busy Commerce plied her energy;
Where loading vessels hung their sails at rest,
And rose and fell, upon the water’s breast.
Where busy little tugs with hissing steam
Buried their noses in the foaming stream.
Near by, a steamer in a paneled wharf
Chafed at her chains and panted to be off.
A strange, mysterious ship, no pennon bold
Her nation or her destination told;
No crew was seen, no farewell song was sung,
No parting loved ones to each other clung;
No wife was weeping on her husband’s neck,
No mother blessed her wayward boy on deck.
A ceaseless throng pressed through the cabin door,
As if they longed to leave their native shore;
No backward glance, no tearful farewell view,
And no one seemed to think home worth adieu.
At last the bell was rung, the plank was drawn,
And with a shivering sigh, the ship was gone.
Then as I marked her curving track of foam,
I wondered in what waters she would roam;
I thought of those on board, the reckless air
Of their departure, and I breathed a prayer.
A red-haired man stood turning up a wheel,
That wound a clanking chain upon a reel;
I laid a coin upon his brawny hand,
And asked him, “Who thus leave their native land?”
He leaned upon his wheel and closed one eye,
As if the lid were burdened with a sty;
Then with a laugh he answered, “By the devil’s spleen and liver,
It’s on’y a Fulton ferry-boat a’gwine a’gross East River.”