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;—