On the Shore
O, rage, ye wild, destroying storms,
And make the waves roll high,
I long to see their mighty forms
Arise against the sky:
Yea, let the merry sea-gulls play
Upon each crested height,
And, dancing in the foaming spray,
Be filled with great delight.
O woeful, weird, and wayward wind.
Across your broad expanse
Stir up the elements that lend
The storm hue to enhance,
And I, observing nature's power
To thrill this breathing clod,
Shall feel in this intensive hour
The potency of God.
By R. J. B.