Robert Pollok Poems

Nor do I of that isle remember aught
Of prospect more sublime and beautiful.
Than Scotia's northern battlement of hills,
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Eternal Spirit! God of truth! to whom
All things seem as they are; thou who of old
The prophet's eye unscaled, that nightly saw,
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Thus said, he waked the golden harp, and thus,
While on him inspiration breathed, began.
As from yon everlasting hills, that gird
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Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair,
Was seen beneath the sun; but nought was seen
More beautiful, or excellent, or fair,
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Pleasant were many scenes, but most to me
The solitude of vast extent, untouched
By hand of art, where Nature sowed, herself,
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Behold'st thou yonder, on the crystal sea,
Beneath the throne of God, an image fair,
And in its hand a mirror large and bright!—
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Fairest of those that left the calm of heaven
And ventured down to man, with words of peace,
Daughter of Grace! known by whatever name,
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As one who meditates at evening tide,
Wandering alone by voiceless solitudes,
And flies in fancy, far beyond the bounds
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Reanimated now, and dressed in robes
Of everlasting wear, in the last pause
Of expectation, stood the human race;
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God of my fathers! holy, just, and good!
My God! my Father! my unfailing Hope!
Jehovah! let the incense of my praise,
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