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WHITE HEAD.
WHITE HEAD.
ROM the pleasant paths I used to tread Full many a mile away,
I dream of the rocks of old White Head,
And the billows of Casco Bay.
I sit once more on the island beach,
Where the waves dash glad and high,
And listen again their mystic speech,
As the murmurous ranks go by;
While, lying here on my tiresome bed,
I cheat the dreary clay
By fondly picturing old White Head
And the waters of Casco Bay.
Beyond it the laden ships go out,
Out into the open sea,
To battle with danger, and storm, and doubt,
And the ocean's treachery;
And the homeward vessels which long have sped
Through tempest, and spray, and foam,
Out into the open sea,
To battle with danger, and storm, and doubt,
And the ocean's treachery;
And the homeward vessels which long have sped
Through tempest, and spray, and foam,
