My boat is on the bounding tide,

Away, away from surge and shore;

A waif upon the wave I ride,

Without a rudder or an oar.

Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow—

The compass now is nought to me;

Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,

If but ye bear me out to sea.

Yon waving line of dusky blue,

Where care and toil oppress the heart—

To thee I bid a long adieu,

And smile to feel that thus we part.

There let the sweating ploughman toil,

The yearning miser count his gain,

The fevered scholar waste his oil,

But I am bounding o'er the main!

How fresh these breezes to the brow—

How dear this freedom to the soul;

Bright ocean, I am with thee now,

So let thy golden billows roll!

But stay—what means this throbbing brain—

This heaving chest—these pulses quick?

Oh, take me to the land again,

For I am very, very sick!