And the fjord too. Crouch’d it then
In so drear and deep a den?
’Tis a squall. A square-rigg’d skiff
Scuds before it to the land.
Southward, shadow’d by the cliff,
I descry a wharf, a shed,
Then, a farm-house, painted red.—
’Tis the farm beside the strand!
’Tis the widow’s farm. The home
Of my childhood. Thronging come
Memories born of memories dead.
I, where yonder breakers roll,
Grew, a lonely infant-soul.
Like a nightmare on my heart
Weighs the burden of my birth,
Knit to one, who walks apart
With her spirit set to earth.
All the high emprise that stirr’d
In me, now is veil’d and blurr’d.
Force and valour from me fail,
Heart and soul grow faint and frail;
As I near my home, I change,
To my very self grow strange—
Wake, as baffled Samson woke,
Shorn and fetter’d, tamed and broke.
[Looks again down into the valley.]