I stand by the lonely breakers
And gaze o'er the misty sea,
Which wrapt in the clouds of winter
Is heaving sullenly:
'Tis a shore where gaunt Need reigneth,
And Woe with her freezing breath;
For the shore is the shore of the dying,
And the sea is the sea of death.
But far o'er the dim horizon
There lieth a land that is fair;
The sun with his gorgeous colours
Is painting the cloud-banks there:
There, robing the green hill-shoulders,
The golden flowerets grow;
And the fruit-trees' cloaks of blossom
In the spicy breezes blow.
Girt round with a mystic glory
Fair palaces I behold,
With many a sculptured pillar,
With many a tower of gold;
The hosts of the saved, resplendent
In glistering white array,
Mid rapture untold are thronging
Those corridors of day.
In silence I yearn as I listen
To the far-off chime of bells:
How nobly the voice of worship
Through the heavenly Temple swells!
I hark to the shout of the victors,
I list to the angels' lays,
As they sing to the Lord of Glory
Grand anthems of endless praise.
Speak! Is this a baseless fabric
Reared high by the dreams of man?
Nay! Nay! tis the fair fulfilment
Of God's everlasting plan.
Sure speaks the eternal promise,
Sure works the almighty grace,
Till the strife-men of earth are marshalled
Triumphant before God's face.
