Poetry Archives

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
  Rear their o’er-shadowing heads, and at their feet
  Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
  And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o’er the distant billows the still Eve
  Sail’d slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
To-morrow—of the friends he lov’d most dear,—
  Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:—
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
  The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,
  And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
  The World his country, and his God his guide.