Twenty Years.
TWENTY YEARS.
Down on the ancient wharf, the sand, I sit, with a new-comerchatting: He shipp'd as green-hand boy, and sail'd away, (took some sud-
den, vehement notion;) Since, twenty years and more have circled round and round, While he the globe was circling round and round,—and now
returns: How changed the place—all the old land-marks gone—the
parents dead; (Yes, he comes back to lay in port for good—to settle— has a well-
fill'd purse—no spot will do but this;) The little boat that scull'd him from the sloop, now held in
leash I see, I hear the slapping waves, the restless keel, the rocking in the
sand, I see the sailor kit, the canvas bag, the great box bound with
brass, I scan the face all berry-brown and bearded—the stout-strong
frame, Dress'd in its russet suit of good Scotch cloth: (Then what the told-out story of those twenty years? What of
the future?)