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 The troubled main,

The wind and rain,

My ardent passion prove;

Lash'd to the helm,

Should seas o'erwhelm,

I'd think on thee, my love.

But should the gracious pow'rs be kind,

Dispel the gloom, and still the wind,

And waft me to thy arms once more,

Safe to my long lost native shore.

No more the main

I'd tempt again,

But tender joys improve;

I then with thee

Should happy be,

And think on nought but love.





Love's blind, they say,

O never, nay;

Can words Love's grace impart?

The fancy, weak,

The tongue may speak,

But eyes alone the heart.