Verse > Anthologies > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. > Poems of Places > Oceanica
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Oceanica: Vol. XXXI.  1876–79.
Polynesia: Pelew Islands
Abba Thule
William Lisle Bowles (1762–1850)

I CLIMB the highest cliff: I hear the sound
Of dashing waves; I gaze intent around:
I mark the sun that orient lifts his head!
I mark the sea’s lone rule beneath him spread:
But not a speck can my long-straining eye,        5
A shadow, o’er the tossing waste descry,
That I might weep tears of delight, and say,
“It is the bark that bore my child away!”
  Thou sun, that beamest bright, beneath whose eye
The worlds unknown, and outstretched waters, lie,        10
Dost thou behold him now? On some rude shore,
Around whose crags the cheerless billows roar,
Watching the unwearied surges doth he stand,
And think upon his father’s distant land?
Or has his heart forgot, so far away,        15
These native scenes, these rocks and torrents gray,
The tall bananas whispering to the breeze,
The shores, the sound of these encircling seas,
Heard from his infant days, and the piled heap
Of holy stones, where his forefathers sleep?        20
  Ah me! till sunk by sorrow, I shall dwell
With them forgetful in the narrow cell,
Never shall time from my fond heart efface
His image; oft his shadow I shall trace
Upon the glimmering waters, when on high        25
The white moon wanders through the cloudless sky.
Oft in my silent cave (when to its fire
From the night’s rushing tempest we retire)
I shall behold his form, his aspect bland;
I shall retrace his footsteps in the sand;        30
And, when the hollow-sounding surges swell,
Still think I listen to his echoing shell.
*        *        *        *        *
  O, I shall never, never hear his voice;
The spring-time shall return, the isles rejoice;
But faint and weary I shall meet the morn,        35
And mid the cheering sunshine droop forlorn!
  The joyous conch sounds in the high wood loud,
O’er all the beach now stream the busy crowd;
Fresh breezes stir the waving plantain grove;
The fisher carols in the winding cove;        40
And light canoes along the lucid tide
With painted shells and sparkling paddles glide.
I linger on the desert rock alone,
Heartless, and cry for thee, my son, my son.

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