At anchor laid, remote from home,
Toiling, I cry, sweet spirit, come!
Celestial breeze, no longer stay,
But swell my sails and speed my way.

Fain would I mount, fain would I glow,
And loose my cable from below;
But I can only spread my sail;
Thou, thou must breathe th’auspicious gale.

Recordings 1 2 3