To The Dead

On the lone waters' shore
  Wander I yet;
  Brooding those moments o'er
  I should forget.
  Till the broad foaming surge
  Warns me to fly,
  While despair's whispers urge
  To stay, and die.
  When the night's solemn watch
  Falls on the seas,
  'Tis thy voice that I catch
  In the low breeze;
  When the moon sheds her light
  On things below,
  Beams not her ray so bright,
  Like thy young brow?
  Spirit immortal! say,
  When wilt thou come,
  To marshal me the way
  To my long home?