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;—
​She rests in yonder village- mound,
⁠Who should have been thy bride,
And thou art sleeping 'neath the sound
⁠Of ocean's flowing tide.