At Dover

Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,-- When thou dost mark the melancholy tide Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,-- Tossed on the surge of life how many sink! And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet, And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry Of danger and of death is heard more nigh, Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget; Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.