  My own girl at home, Weep no longer for me, The ship steps through the ocean foam That bears me back to thee. Full sail and bending mast, We cleave the waters green; I’m hasting home to thee, at last, My own Eveleen. I have o’ercome the fate That parted us so long; I have o’erpast the treacherous hate, Forgot the rankling wrong. I am speeding o’er the sea They swore should roll between The one who loves thee well, and thee, My own Eveleen! Of you, how many a night I’ve dreamed, the long watch through! From noon’s brain-searing shafts of light My thoughts have flown to you. To you in your own home bowers, Where the light falls cool and green, My saint of saints! my flower of flowers! My own Eveleen! But now no longer pine, No longer wait and weep; Our pennant floats far o’er the brine, We march along the deep. With store of royal gold, With silks of sunny sheen, And bridal raiment meet to fold My own Eveleen. An hour! and he shall trace The old home seen once more; But to have seen his true love’s face White as the shroud she wore! Oh, light in darkness seen! Oh, voiceless as the stone above Thy grave, Eveleen! C. P. M. Mozambique Channel, November 1861. [Image of decorative bar not available.] |
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