The light of faith still clearly shines.
Most like a child who, while it grieves,
Still in a father's love believes.
The old man seems ; and as the child,
To free its sight, doth push away
The ringlets from its forehead mild,
So throws he back his locks of gray.
Then searches long and eagerly
The horizon of that turbid sea.
With footstep hushed and pitying eye
The shepherds silent pass him by,
And every child is taught to show
Meet reverence for that head of snow.
Nor first this eve upon that hill
The aged Wolfe doth watch, but still.
Day after day, his stooping form
May there be seen, in calm and storm,
His eye turned ever to the sea,
North, west, and south, untiringly.