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^[3] of earth are marshalled

Triumphant before God's face.