Thy Life, once finny circlings in the sea,
Is now the orbits of the starry host,
Encircling God with trust. Be this thy boast,
When the long line of Ages, passing thee,
Lifts each his heart and soul, and shouts with glee,
"That Trust in Him was Sentinel on post."
Night, that once boa-like hung from thy trees,
Gorged with crushed tribes—with pottery, or mound,
Or print of foot for trace—slinks underground;
For lo, the forests, like the mist on seas,