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There's a shadow of the grave on thy hearth, and round
Come to me from the ocean's dead!—thou'rt surely of
'Twas Ulla's voice--alone she stood
In the Iceland summer night,
Far gazing o'er a glassy flood,
From a dark rock's beetling height.
"I know thou hast thy bed.
Where the sea-weed's coil hath bound thee:
The storm sweeps o'er thy head,
But the depths are hush'd around thee. What wind shall point the way
To the chambers where thou'rt lying?
Come to me thence, and say
If thou thought'st on me in dying?
I will not shrink to see thee with a bloodless lip and
Come to me from the ocean's dead!-thou'rt surely of
She listened-'twas the wind's low moan,
'Twas the ripple of the wave,
"I know each fearful spell
The tempest to obey.
By magic sign or song,
My voice shall stir the sea
By love, the deep, the strong!
By the might of woman's tears, by the passion of her
Come to me from the ocean's dead-by the vows we
Again she gaz'd with an eager glance,
She saw but the sparkling waters dance
By the slow and struggling death
Of hope that loath'd to part,
Of despair on youth's high heart;
By all that from my weary soul thou hast wrung of grief
Come to me from the ocean's dead-awake, arise,
Was it her yearning spirit's dream,
Or did a pale form rise,
And o'er the hush'd wave glide and gleam,
"Have the depths heard?-they have! My voice prevails-thou'rt there,
Dim from thy watery grave,
Oh! thou that wert so fair!
Yet take me to thy rest!
There dwells no fear with love; Let me slumber on thy breast,
While the billows roll above!