That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone, prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ’s melody;
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona’s holy fane,
That Nature’s voice might seem to say,
Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine