Lord Byron (1788–1824)

IS thy face like thy mother’s, my fair child!

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart?

When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,

And then we parted,—not as now we part,

But with a hope.—
Awaking with a start,

The waters heave around me; and on high

The winds lift up their voices: I depart,

Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by,

When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!

And the waves bound beneath me as a steed

That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!

Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!

Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,

And the rent canvas fluttering, strew the gale,

Still must I on; for I am as a weed,

Flung from the rock, on ocean’s foam, to sail

Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.