Far away fond hearts are beating,
Out upon the stormy sea;
Let us hear if no kind greeting
In the noisy waves may be.
Each, in hurrying after each,
(For the sea is loud and high)
Will bear it to the pebbly beach,
And cast it at our feet and die.

Hark! a low and farewell of sorrow,
And foreboding of despair,
Fearful of the hard to-morrow,
Loaded with its freight of care:
Tender words of hope and comfort,
For the loved and the forlorn,
Left alone to toil and suffer,
On the rushing waves are borne.

Tender thoughts of home far distant,
Seen thorough mists of childish tears,
Mixed with brightest dreams of glory,
And the hopes of childish years;
Honours and renown, and victory,
Ere the strife is yet begun,
And the conquered to be pardoned,
Ere the day is fought or won.

Vows and words of trust and promise,
Murmured tenderly and low,
Given to the midnight breezes,
Where the northern waters flow;
Hope, regret, and joy and sorrow,
Mingle in the water’s roar,
As the crested waves are rushing
Onward to the pebbly shore.

Hush! Amid the din of waters
Let us hold our breath and hear,
If the thunder of the cannon
Be not borne toward us here;
If the deadly sound of battle
Come across the waters free,
And the English cry of “Victory!”
Be not echoed by the sea!


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