Ah, mournful days, yet hopes bright fires would burn,
Giving warm promise of his quick return,
Oft would I stand beside the untiring seas,
And send him words of love and trust like these:

"Evening's gloom is round me now,
Evening's breeze is whispering low,
Gentle murmuring voices wake
From the ripples of the lake.
Maker of the land and sea,
Hear my humble evening plea,
Father, hear me as I pray,
One I love is far away.

Guide the bark that bears him on,
Up the mountain's towering height,
And the misty damps of night,
In the city's moving throng,
With the wood-dove's sweetest song,
By the lonely river's marge,
O'er him give Thy angels charge.


In his hours of gladsome mirth,
Round some warm and welcome hearth,
In the halls of keen debate,
And the pomp and pride of state,
Cheer his spirit with love's beams
Lighten up his midnight dreams;
In his wanderings free and wild,