Alone the breeze thy rival proves,
Smoothing o'er thee his graceful hand,
Lord of that empire over land,
He moves thy hatred and thy loves.
Yet thy unwearied plunging swell,
Still breaking, charms the sandy reach,
No dweller on the shifting beach,
No auditor of thy deep knell;—
The sunny wave, a soft caress;
The gleaming ebb, the parting day;
The waves like tender buds in May,
A fit retreat for blessedness.
And breathed a sigh like children's prayers,
Across thy light aerial blue,
That might have softened wretches too,
Until they dallied with these airs.
Was there no flitting to thy mood?
Was all this bliss and love to last?
No lighthouse by thy stormy past,
No graveyard in thy solitude!
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson and Son.