Steer on, bold sailor-Wit
may mock thy soul that sees the land,
And hopeless at the helm may droop the weak and weary hand,
Yet ever-ever to the West, for there the coast must lie,
And dim it dawns, and glimmering dawns before thy reasons eye;
Yea, trust the guiding God-and go along the floating grave,
Though hid till now-yet now behold the New World oer the wave!
With genius Nature ever stands in solemn union still,
And ever what the one foretells the other shall fulfil.