Oh, why no far, faint shore-line can we scan?
Full many a bark thy serried billows crossed,
Full many a sail hath spread before the wind,
But none hath e’er returned; the tempest-tost
And anxious mariner doth haven find
In fairer clime, in sunny land afar,
Where no storms rudely break or winds contend.
There nothing enters in their joy to mar,
Who have the peace of God, which knows no end.
Oh, may we, too, that stand with straining eye—