On the 31st, the fortunate wind which carried us from the Banks, failed us about thirty-five miles from Sandy Hook.  We lay in the midst of the mackerel fishery, with small schooners anchored all around us.  Fog, dense and impenetrable, weighed on the moveless ocean, like an atmosphere of wool.  The only incident to break the horrid monotony of the day, was the arrival of a pilot, with one or two newspapers, detailing the account of the Mexican War.  We heard in the afternoon the booming of the surf along the low beach of Long Island—­hollow and faint, like the murmur of a shell.  When the mist lifted a little, we saw the faint line of breakers along the shore.  The Germans gathered on deck to sing their old, familiar songs, and their voices blended beautifully together in the stillness.

Next morning at sunrise we saw Sandy Hook; at nine o’clock we were telegraphed in New York by the station at Coney Island; at eleven the steamer “Hercules” met us outside the Hook; and at noon we were gliding up the Narrows, with the whole ship’s company of four hundred persons on deck, gazing on the beautiful shores of Staten Island and agreeing almost universally, that it was the most delightful scene they had ever looked upon.

And now I close the story of my long wandering, as I began it—­with a lay written on the deep.

    HOMEWARD BOUND.

    Farewell to Europe!  Days have come and gone
    Since misty England set behind the sea. 
    Our ship climbs onward o’er the lifted waves,
    That gather up in ridges, mountain-high,
    And like a sea-god, conscious in his power,
    Buffets the surges.  Storm-arousing winds
    That sweep, unchecked, from frozen Labrador,
    Make wintry music through the creaking shrouds. 
    Th’ horizon’s ring, that clasps the dreary view,
    Lays mistily upon the gray Atlantic’s breast. 
    Shut out, at times, by bulk of sparry blue,
    That, rolling near us, heaves the swaying prow
    High on its shoulders, to descend again
    Ploughing a thousand cascades, and around
    Spreading the frothy foam.  These watery gulfs,
    With storm, and winds far-sweeping, hem us in,
    Alone upon the waters!

                               Days must pass—­
    Many and weary—­between sea and sky. 
    Our eyes, that long e’en now for the fresh green
    Of sprouting forests, and the far blue stretch
    Of regal mountains piled along the sky,
    Must see, for many an eve, the level sun
    Sheathe, with his latest gold, the heaving brine,
    By thousand ripples shivered, or Night’s pomp
    Brooding in silence, ebon and profound,
    Upon the murmuring darkness of the deep,
    Broken by flashings, that the parted wave
    Sends white and star-like throujch its bursting foam. 
    Yet not more dear the opening dawn of heaven
    Poured on the earth in an Italian May,