To bid the unrepentant heart rejoice;
To the seared spirit opes no ready heaven;
Forgives not him whom God hath not forgiven;
Nor loves she pomp’s vain homage; not the tide
Of low oblations at the shrine of pride.
Wm. Spicer Wood.
I see the ocean tossing in its strength,
And with a moan that speaks of coming storms
Rousing the dark waves from their lair, to greet
The howling wind, that in its force comes down