How few, of all the hearts that loved,
⁠Are grieving for thee now;
And why should mine to-night be moved
⁠With such a sense of woe?

Too often thus, when left alone,
⁠Where none my thoughts can see,
Comes back a word, a passing tone
⁠From thy strange history.

Sometimes I seem to see thee rise,
⁠A glorious child again;
All virtues beaming from thine eyes
⁠That ever honoured men:

Courage and truth, a generous breast
⁠Where sinless sunshine lay:
A being whose very presence blest
⁠Like gladsome summer-day.

O, fairly spread thy early sail,
⁠And fresh, and pure, and free,
Was the first impulse of the gale
⁠Which urged life's wave for thee!