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Poems for the Sea.
Asking with your Sabbath chime
For his consecrated time,
And with holy chant and prayer
Soothing all his woe and care,—
Minster and cathedral high
Ne'er have shut ye from mine eye,
With your church-yard's grassy sod,
Where my musing childhood trod,
With your music on the glade,
Which the roving Indian staid,
Who, of yore, at twilight dim,
Starting, caught the white man's hymn,
Hallowed spires! that fleck the vale,
Heaven's ambassadors!—all hail!
Trees! with arch of verdure bright,
Gleaming on the gazer's sight,
Have ye met the wintry blast
Bravely, since we saw ye last?
Was your spring-tide wakening sweet,
With the grass flowers at your feet?
Nest the birds with breast of gold
Mid your branches, as of old?
