You at the shrine of peace and glory shone,—
Sublime your toils, for still your theme was Heaven;
I, upon life’s tempestuous billows thrown,—
A little bark before the tempest driven,—
Strove for a time the surging tide to breast,
And up its rolling mountains sought for rest.
Wearied at length with the unceasing strife,
I gave my pinnace to the harbor’s lee,
And left that ocean, still with tempests rife,
To mad ambition’s heartless rivalry;