Dover Cliffs

On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood 
Uprear their shadowing heads, and at their feet 
Hear not the surge that has for ages beat, 
How many a lonely wanderer has stood! 
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear, 
And o'er the distant billows the still eve 
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave 
To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear; 
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part! 
Oh! 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.