The gun is fired, the signal blueFloats from the mast—adieu! adieu!Flow'r of the flow'rs! smile of the smiles!Gem of the Zelander's sandy isles!O! many a time will I turn to thee,In fond and faithful memory.Though pleasure over my path may shine,'Twill only remind me of thee and thine—Though sorrow may haunt me, yet 'twill beThe sharpener of what I lost in thee.For ever, for ever, my heart will rememberThe stormy birth of our own September.When down on my head fell sheets of rain,And the lightning lash'd the gloomy plain:As if the Heav'ns were repeating that night,(What that day we had done) the terrible fight.14For, Sweet, in that hour of tempest I met thee,And felt, even then, I could never forget thee.Oh! thy gentle looks, and thy pitying sighs,Put an end to the rage of the roaring skies;And thy father, thy home, and thine own sweet smile,Made me love the Zelander's sandy isle.How quick, how quick, did the moments flee!O! their beautiful wings were made by thee.How fair—how fair was each morning's light;For thou wert there—so bright—so bright!But one—the last—was bleak and dark—Oh! it dawn'd in mist on my home-bound bark—I cannot help thinking it seem'd to beA gloomy omen of destiny.Yes, while I live, shall my soul rememberThe stormy birth of our own September;For thou shalt be as a lovely tree,Fresh blooming within my memory—For ever budding beautiful leavesTo cheer the waste over which it waves.
The gun is fired, the signal blueFloats from the mast—adieu! adieu!Flow'r of the flow'rs! smile of the smiles!Gem of the Zelander's sandy isles!O! many a time will I turn to thee,In fond and faithful memory.Though pleasure over my path may shine,'Twill only remind me of thee and thine—Though sorrow may haunt me, yet 'twill beThe sharpener of what I lost in thee.For ever, for ever, my heart will rememberThe stormy birth of our own September.When down on my head fell sheets of rain,And the lightning lash'd the gloomy plain:As if the Heav'ns were repeating that night,(What that day we had done) the terrible fight.14For, Sweet, in that hour of tempest I met thee,And felt, even then, I could never forget thee.Oh! thy gentle looks, and thy pitying sighs,Put an end to the rage of the roaring skies;And thy father, thy home, and thine own sweet smile,Made me love the Zelander's sandy isle.How quick, how quick, did the moments flee!O! their beautiful wings were made by thee.How fair—how fair was each morning's light;For thou wert there—so bright—so bright!But one—the last—was bleak and dark—Oh! it dawn'd in mist on my home-bound bark—I cannot help thinking it seem'd to beA gloomy omen of destiny.Yes, while I live, shall my soul rememberThe stormy birth of our own September;For thou shalt be as a lovely tree,Fresh blooming within my memory—For ever budding beautiful leavesTo cheer the waste over which it waves.