On A High Part Of The Coast Of Cumberland - Easter Sunday, April 7 - The Author's Sixty-Third Birthday

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 steadfast 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 its 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!