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     ‘Dear Lord!’ she saith, “to many a home
From wind and wave the wanderers come;
     I only see the tossing foam Of stranger keels.

Blown out and in by summer gales,
     The stately ships, with crowded sails,
And sailors leaning o'er their rails,
     Before me glide;
They come, they go, but nevermore,
     Spice-laden from the Indian shore,
I see his swift-winged Isidore
     The waves divide.

O Thou! with whom the night is day
     And one the near and far away,
Look out on yon gray waste, and say
     Where lingers he.
Alive, perchance, on some lone beach
     Or thirsty isle beyond the reach
Of man, he hears the mocking speech
     Of wind and sea.

O dread and cruel deep, reveal
     The secret which thy waves conceal,
And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel
     And tell your tale.
Let winds that tossed his raven hair
     A message from my lost one bear,—
Some thought of me, a last fond prayer
     Or dying wail!

Come, with your dreariest truth shut out
     The fears that haunt me round about;

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