Thou, whose stern spirit loves the storm, <br />That, borne on Terror's desolating wings, <br />Shakes the high forest, or remorseless flings <br />The shivered surge; when rising griefs deform <br />Thy peaceful breast, hie to yon steep, and think,-- <br />When thou dost mark the melancholy tide <br />Beneath thee, and the storm careering wide,-- <br />Tossed on the surge of life how many sink! <br />And if thy cheek with one kind tear be wet, <br />And if thy heart be smitten, when the cry <br />Of danger and of death is heard more nigh, <br />Oh, learn thy private sorrows to forget; <br />Intent, when hardest beats the storm, to save <br />One who, like thee, has suffered from the wave.<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-dover/
