Nahant

Rude, rock-bound coast, where erst the Indian roamed,The iron shoulders of thy furrowed cliffs,Made black with smiting, still in stubborn forceResist the scourging wave.Bright summer sunsIn all the fervor of their noon-tide heatObtain no power to harm thee, for thou wrapp'stThy watery mantle round thee, ever freshWith ocean's coolness, and defy'st their rage.

The storm-cloud is thy glory.Then, thou deck'stThyself with majesty, and to its frownAnd voice of thunder, answerest boldly back,And from thy watch-towers hurl'st the blinding spray,While every dark and hollow cavern soundsIts trumpet for the battle.Yet, 'tis sweetAmid thy fissured rocks to ruminate,Marking thy grottos with mosaic pavedOf glittering pebbles, and that balm to breathe

Which gives the elastic nerves a freer play,And tints the languid cheek with hues of health.

The sand-beach and the sea!Who can divineTheir mystic intercourse, that day and nightSurceaseth not? On comes the thundering surge,Lifting its mountain-head, with menace stern,To whelm the unresisting; but impelledIn all the plenitude of kingly powerTo change its purpose of authority.Breaking its wand of might, doth hurry back;And then, repenting, with new wrath return.Yet still that single, silvery line abides,Lowly, and fearless, and immutable.God gives it strength.So may He deign to grantThe sand-line of our virtues, power to copeWith all temptation. When some secret snareDoth weave its meshes round our trembling souls,That in their frailty turn to Him alone,So may He give us strength.