The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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The Monk's Hymn.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
The Monk's Hymn.
Thou, who makest the ocean to flow,
Thou, who walkest the channels below;
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap,
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep,
Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep!
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!
Thou, who walkest the channels below;
To thee, to thee, this incense we heap,
Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep,
Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep!
To thee, to thee, we sing to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!
To thee, who bringest with thy right hand
The little fishes around our land;
To thee, who breath'st in the bosomed sail,
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale,
Flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Lightest the gleam on the mane of the wave,
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm;
Or risest like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
And rearest thy proud and thy pale chaperoon
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon;
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour,
God of the western wind, God of the shower!
The little fishes around our land;
To thee, who breath'st in the bosomed sail,
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale,
Flingest the sinner to downward grave,
Lightest the gleam on the mane of the wave,
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform,
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm;
Or risest like mountain amid the sea,
Where mountain was never, and never will be,
And rearest thy proud and thy pale chaperoon
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon;
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour,
God of the western wind, God of the shower!
To thee, who bid'st those mountains of brine
Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spread'st thy couch of silver light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night;
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue;
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,
And the solan's young, and the lines of foam,
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home,
We pour this oil and this wine to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!—
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
Softly sink in the fair moonshine,
And spread'st thy couch of silver light,
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night;
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew,
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue;
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill,
And the shadows lie rocked and slumbering still,
And the solan's young, and the lines of foam,
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home,
We pour this oil and this wine to thee,
God of the western wind, God of the sea!—
“Greater yet must the offering be.”
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |