X.
 

Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife,
    And travell’d men from foreign lands;
    And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams:
    This look of quiet flatters thus
    Our home-bred fancies: O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,
    That takes the sunshine and the rains,
    Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells
    Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
    And hands so often clasp’d in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.