The torrent roars—a force too wild to tame,
Its form transformed by bardic spell and art.
It bursts from caverns, foaming without name,
And leaps from cliffs with thunder in its heart.
No rock can halt its rush, nor cliff impart
A pause to its relentless, plunging flight.
The gull’s sharp cry is lost, its wings apart,
As it soars o’er the chasm’s blinding white—
The voice of Maine’s fierce shore, in storm’s full might.

Breath held in awe before the waters’ flow,
We see that nature’s works are vast and slow—
Infinite in form, in purpose, in reward;
They guide the soul where deeper truths may grow,
And point toward One Supreme, the unseen Lord—
This is the sacred calling of the bard.
Wanderers of the world! From cliffs behold
The ocean’s power, mountainous and grand.
Its waves, like deer that flee the hunter bold,
Roll wild and free across the trembling sand.

The ocean billows rise at His command—
Does not your heart grow pale with sudden awe?
To think what hand restrains this raging band,
And calms the flood with but a silent law—
A force unseen, yet felt in all we saw.
Then through the foam, a fragile ship appears,
A mussel shell upon the ocean’s face.
It dives and climbs, then vanishes in fears,
Then rears again with desperate, flailing grace.

The winds scream through its shrouds, the rigging’s trace,
The sails are torn, the canvas soaked and frayed.
The crew looks up with hope in their embrace—
Their eyes like prayers, their courage half betrayed,
As sea and storm conspire to leave them all dismayed.

But lo! the winds grow still, the storm is gone,
The sun breaks through, the waves begin to rest.
The ship rights slowly; sails again are drawn,
And rides the tide in gallant, golden crest.
The seamen shout, their joy in song confessed—
Their voices rise, their spirits light and free.
From death they’ve passed into a moment blessed;
And every heart now sings in jubilee—
The breath of life renewed, of destiny.