TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters’ shore

Wander I yet;

Brooding those moments o'er

I should forget.

‘ Till the broad foaming surge

Warns me to fly,

While despair's whispers urge

To stay and die.

When the night's solemn watch

Falls on the seas,

‘ Tis thy voice that I catch

In the low breeze;

When the moon sheds her light

On things below,

Beams not her ray so bright,

Like thy young brow?

Spirit immortal! say,

When wilt thou come,

To marshal me the way

To my long home?