 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
67
A MAY-FLOWER PILGRIM TO THE FADING CLIFFS.
(1620.)
Fade, fade, ye cliffs; fade, England, from our lives
As twilight closeth on the vessel's path:
The ocean's rage is kinder than man's wrath:
Our tears are salter than the spray that drives,
As twilight closeth on the vessel's path:
The ocean's rage is kinder than man's wrath:
Our tears are salter than the spray that drives,
And fast they fall. Farewell, ye human hives;
Ye village bells, and fragrant meadow math;
On, on, towards the wilderness that hath
Freedom, scant food, and winds that cut like knives.
Ye village bells, and fragrant meadow math;
On, on, towards the wilderness that hath
Freedom, scant food, and winds that cut like knives.
For Lord, oh, Thou art with us; and Thy breath
Will blow us to a haven, as it blew
The captains of the Spaniard to their death.
Will blow us to a haven, as it blew
The captains of the Spaniard to their death.
From Thee we have the impulse and the clue;
And chains of liquid peaks will sink beneath
Thy smoothing hand, though shrieks the ocean mew.
And chains of liquid peaks will sink beneath
Thy smoothing hand, though shrieks the ocean mew.
| Imaginary Sonnets | |