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CONSTANCE.

The tropic stars are looking down
Upon the midnight deep;
The wind blows fresh, as on our course
Right gallantly we sweep;
For thee I wake, O fair beloved!
Far o'er the flashing foam,
My fears, my hopes, my tender thoughts,
Like swift-winged birds, fly home!
   Constance, my bride,
   My heart's dear pride,
Say, is it well with thee?

I wake from dreams that some dread ill
Hath breathed upon thy bloom,—
That round thy ways are falling fast
The cold shades of the tomb;