November 9, 1864. Vol. 1 No. 6. Page 1
Come from your long, long roving:
On the sea so wild and rough;
Come to me tender and loving,
And I shall be blest enough.
Of man though you be unforgiving,
Though saint is unable to shrive,
I’ll pray till I weary all heaven,
If only you come back alive.
Where your sails have been unfurling,
What winds have blown on your brow?
I care not, I ask not, my darling,
So that you come to me now.
Sorrowful, sinful, and lonely—
Poor and despised though you be;
All are as nothing, if only
You turn from the tempter to me.