Not of the boisterous wave,
   Not of the tempest's power,
Not of the tossed and cleaving bark,
   Speak at this sacred hour.

God of the trusting soul!
   God of the wanderer, hear!
And from our parting cup of love
   Wring out the dregs of fear.

Art Thou a God at home,
   Where the bright fireside smiles,
And not abroad, upon the deep,
   Mid danger's deadliest wiles?

What though the eyes so dear
   To distant regions turn,
Their tender language in our hearts
   Like cherished flame shall burn.

What though the voice beloved
   Reply not to our pain,
We'll keep its music in our souls,
   Until we meet again.

Farewell!—May angel-guards
   Protect thy wave-rocked sleep,
Nor shall our nightly prayers forget
   The loved one on the deep.