What Mischief Cleaves To Unsubdued Regret, How Fancy Sickens By Vague Hopes Beset; How Baffled Projects On The Spirit Prey, And Fruitless Wishes Eat The Heart Away, The Sailor Knows; He Best, Whose Lot Is Cast On The Relentless Sea That Holds Him Fast On Chance Dependent, And The Fickle Star Of Power, Through Long And Melancholy War. O Sad It Is, In Sight Of Foreign Shores, Daily To Think On Old Familiar Doors, Hearths Loved In Childhood, And Ancestral Floors; Or, Tossed About Along A Waste Of Foam, To Ruminate On That Delightful Home Which With The Dear Betrothed 'Was' To Come; Or Came And Was And Is, Yet Meets The Eye Never But In The World Of Memory; Or In A Dream Recalled, Whose Smoothest Range Is Crossed By Knowledge, Or By Dread, Of Change, And If Not So, Whose Perfect Joy Makes Sleep A Thing Too Bright For Breathing Man To Keep. Hail To The Virtues Which That Perilous Life Extracts From Nature'S Elemental Strife; And Welcome Glory Won In Battles Fought As Bravely As The Foe Was Keenly Sought. But To Each Gallant Captain And His Crew A Less Imperious Sympathy Is Due, Such As My Verse Now Yields, While Moonbeams Play On The Mute Sea In This Unruffled Bay; Such As Will Promptly Flow From Every Breast, Where Good Men, Disappointed In The Quest Of Wealth And Power And Honours, Long For Rest; Or, Having Known The Splendours Of Success, Sigh For The Obscurities Of Happiness.