God cleaves the rock beneath the channel blue,
And then his noblest ships sail safely through.
THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS
'TIS the laughter of pines that swing and sway
Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay;
'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide
In ripples that reach to the forest side;
'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen,