The sea is His; He made its blue ex­panse,
And wrapped it like a man­tle round the globe;
An az­ure vel­vet, sheened with sun­shine’s glance,
Ermined with white­caps like an em­press’ robe.

The sea is His; its roll­ing bil­lows swell
Their ber­yl bos­oms, laced with foamy snow,
And in their cease­less psal­mo­dy they tell
What tides, like hu­man heart-throbs, heave be­low.

The sea is His; in wa­te­ry mount­ains whirled,
Waked by His breath its waves as­sault the skies,
Its thun­der­ing break­ers shake the sol­id world,
And na­vies van­ish, con­quer­or and prize.

The sea is His; with­in its mir­rored calm
His white-cloud cha­ri­ots sweep a dou­ble sky,
Its tem­pests slum­ber in His fold­ed palm,
Its mon­sters gam­bol ’neath their mak­er’s eye.

The sea is His; its hymns its or­gan bass
Till na­ture’s an­them fills the vault­ed pole;
Or, float­ing soft as in­cense from a vase,
Æolian ves­pers thrill the ra­vished soul.

The sea is His; a pave­ment for His throne;
An im­age of im­men­si­ty and might;
A shore­less, in­fi­nite abyss, un­known;
A gulf of splen­dor in a gulf of night.

The sea is His; but when His trump shall sound
Its trem­bling waves shall die along the shore,
Its fright­ened floods shall shrink in caves pro­found
In that new earth there shall be sea no more.