LOST AT SEA.
25
No tidings ever came to me,
And weary years have sped;
Alas! alas! and this may be
Till seas give up their dead.
And weary years have sped;
Alas! alas! and this may be
Till seas give up their dead.
No token here to gaze upon,
Not e'en a lock of hair,
Which fell in sunny braids, around
Thy beauteous face so fair.
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Not e'en a lock of hair,
Which fell in sunny braids, around
Thy beauteous face so fair.
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