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Poem	ON these white cliffs, that calm above the flood Rear their o'er-shadowing heads, and at their feet Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat, Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood; And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, And o'er the distant billows the still Eve Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must leave To-morrow -- of the friends he lov'd most dear, -- Of social scenes, from which he wept to part: -- But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all The thoughts, that would full fain the past recall, Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide, The World his country, and his God his guide.
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