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Come back from Memory's mourning urn,
And bless my sight again;
For now in restless dreams I turn
To clasp thy hand,—in vain!
I bid thy gentle spirit come
And look once more on me;
But thou art slumbering where the foam
Rolls madly o'er the sea.

Alas! how soon our better years
To tempest winds are blown,
And all our hopes, and joys, and fears
Alike are widely strown;—
She rests in yonder village- mound,
Who should have been thy bride,
And thou art sleeping 'neath the sound
Of ocean's flowing tide.