And since 'tis thou alone whose bread, whose roof my life didst save,
I weep the bitterest tears of all because I am a slave!
Yet wouldst thou deign, O lady dear, to make more light to me
The hours I pass beneath thy roof, in dark captivity,--
I bid thee build for me, if thou approve of the design,
An ocean bark, well fitted to cross the surging brine;
Let it be swift, let it be strong, and leave all barks behind,
When on the surges of the main it feels the favoring wind.
We'll launch it from the sloping shore, and, when the wind is high,
And the fierce billows threatening mix their foam-tops with the sky,
We'll lower the mainsail, lest the storm should carry us away,
And sweep us on the reefs that lurk in some deep Afric bay.
And on the lofty topmast shall this inscription stand,
Written in letters which they use in every Christian land:
'This ship is tossed in many a storm, it lands on many a shore,
And the wide sea, beneath the wind, it swiftly travels o'er;
'Tis like the human heart which brings no treasure and no gain,
Till, tossed by hard misfortune, it has known the sea of pain.
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