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While o'er the deep swept the war-cry, And peal'd the trumpet's voice on high, While the ship rode the waves as she Were mistress of their destiny. And muster'd on the deck the band, Till died the last shout from the strand; But when the martial pomp was o'er, And, like the future, dim the shore On the horizon hung, again Closed memory, like a chain The spirit struggles with in vain.

The sky with its delicious blue, The stars like visions wandering through: Surely, if Fate had treasured there Her rolls of life, they must be fair;