From the Bay of Biscay

A FAR our stormy vessel flies
From all my heart holds dear,
But thou art yet before my eyes,
And thy far voice I hear.

The Fates then had not frowns enough;
Too happy had we been
Had not the Atlantic, cold and rough,
Roll'd his wide wave between.

Too happy, yes; but ah! how dear
The price we should have paid!
I fear'd no tempest, there or here,
For thee was I afraid.
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