Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My winged boat,
A bird afloat,

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,
The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O'erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles
O'er liquid miles;

And yonder, bluest of the isles,
Calm Capri waits,

Her sapphire gates

Beguiling to her bright estates.

Down in the bleak December bay
The ghostly vessel stands away;
Her spars and halyards white with ice,
Under the dark December skies.
A hundred souls, in company,
Have left the vessel pensively,

Have touched the frosty desert there,
And touched it with the knees of prayer.
And now the day begins to dip,
The night begins to lower

Over the bay, and over the ship
Mayflower.

Neither the desert nor the sea
Imposes rites: their prayers are free;
Danger and toil the wild imposes,
And thorns must grow before the roses.
And who are these?—and what distress
The savage-acred wilderness

On mother, maid, and child, may bring,
Beseems them for a fearful thing;