Before the driving blast the vision dies,
And all the vivid tints of splendour fly:
Pass but a moment, every ray is gone:
Nor e’en a vestige left where the bright glories shone.
And shall we, for this visionary gleam,
Degenerate, swerve from Heaven’s immortal plan?
Give up, for vanity’s light airy dream,
The nobler heritage reserved for man?
Though rocks their cragged heads in ambush hide,
Though storms and tempests sweep the angry main,