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Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?Festively she puts forth in trim array;As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?What boots the enquiry? Neither friend nor foeShe cares for; let her travel where she may,She finds familiar names, a beaten wayEver before her, and a wind to blow.Yet still I ask, what Haven is her mark?And, almost as it was when ships were rare,From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and thereCrossing the waters; doubt, and something dark,Of the old Sea some reverential fear,Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
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