Herself in funeral flames decreed to burn.
O yet in clouds, thou genial Source of Light!
Conceal thy radiant glories from our sight;
Go, with thy smile adorn thy happy plain,
And gild the scenes where health and pleasure reign:
But let not here, in scorn, thy wanton beam
Insult the dreadful grandeur of my theme.
While shoreward now the bounding vessel flies,
Full in her van St. George’s Cliffs arise;
High o’er the rest a pointed crag is seen,