Written On Visiting Black Gang Chine, And Hearing Of The Loss Of A Vessel In Chale Bay Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Beautiful sea! which for ever art flowing,
How bright are thy waters beneath the pale moon;
Though fearful thy deeps when the storm-wind is blowing,
Yet no trace now is left of the mariner's doom.
Softly he sleeps—none may waken his slumbers,
Pillowed his head rests in thy green pearly caves;
For ever the sea-nymphs bemoan him in numbers,
And the sounds of their requiem are caught by thy waves.
Thoughts of the past, ah! to me thou art bringing,—
Of tides which in darkness and bitterness roll;
Death's dwelling is there, and his shadow is flinging
A blackness which chills the pure light of my soul.
Queen of the night, I will worship thee ever,—
Over the glad sea shall my vesper song pour;
Mid the solemn silence I gaze on thee never,
But my spirit is bowing, thy shrine to adore.
Stars, which are burning in undying splendour,
To me speak of destiny from your high dome;
Ah! that lamps of such radiance should darkness engender
And point to the grave as our doom and our home.
Spirit of Beauty! who walkest the waters,
And dwellest above in the arch of the sky;
Over the green earth with her loveliest daughters,
E'en now thou art roving—I hear thy faint sigh.
Stay, Spirit,—oh, stay! and gladden my dreaming,
Be seen o'er the mountain and heard o'er the flood;
May I ever hail thee when morning is streaming,
And meet thee when Sol is just setting in blood!