The Finest View

Away, away! The plains of Ind     Have set their victim free;     I give my sorrows to the wind,     My sun-hat to the sea;     And, standing with a chosen few,     I watch a dying glow,     The passing of the Finest View     That all the world can show.     It would not fire an artist's eye,     This View whereof I sing;     Poets, no doubt, would pass it by     As quite a common thing;     The Tourist with belittling sniff     Would find no beauties there -     He couldn't if he would, and if     He could he wouldn't care.     Only for him that turns the back     On dark and evil days     It throws a glory down his track     That sets his heart ablaze;     A charm to make the wounded whole,     Which wearied eyes may draw     Luxuriously through the soul,     Like cocktails through a straw.     I have seen strong men moved to tears     When gazing o'er the deep,     Hard men, whom I have known for years,     Nor dreamt that they could weep;     Even myself, though stern and cold     Beyond the common line,     Cannot, for very joy, withhold     The tribute of my brine.     Farewell, farewell, thou best of Views!     I leave thee to thy pain,     And, while I have the power to choose,     We shall not meet again;     But, 'mid the scenes of joy and mirth,     My fancies oft will turn     Back to the Finest Sight on Earth,     The Bombay Lights - astern!