On a High Part of the Coast of Cumberland

The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,

Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,

Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

Prelude of night’s approach with soothing dreams.

Look round;—of all the clouds not one is moving;

’Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.

Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky,

The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:—

Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o’er

The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?

No; ’tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,

Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke

Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,

And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood

Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,

Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

For the brief course that must for me remain;

Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice

In admonitions of thy softest voice!

Whate’er the path these mortal feet may trace,

Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,

Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere

Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,

Glad to expand; and, for a season, free

From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!