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SAILOR'S HYMN.
When in foreign lands we roam,
Far from kindred and from home,
Stranger-eyes our conduct viewing,
Heathen-bands our steps pursuing,
Let our conversation be,
Fitting those who follow thee.
Should pale Death, with arrow dread,
Make the ocean-caves our bed,
Though no eye of love might see
Where that shrouded grave shall be—
Christ! who hear'st the surges roll,
Deign to save the Sailor's soul.
