The Cloisters: Political Changes

Strange — the o'erwhelming tide that beareth on
The soul of Nations — mighty, though unseen,
And wielding mighty destinies ; not e'en
Huge Ocean, on his bed with thunder strewn,
Rocking from pole to pole to the pale Moon,
More constant in mutation ; 'mid the scene
We stretch our sounding canvas, nor aught ween
Our whereabouts, save where the past hath gone !
It was the Everlasting that pass'd by,
We saw not, but in cloud o'er cloud array'd,
Ocean o'er ocean roll'd ineffably,
Onward, like tide-born billows, He doth heave
Men's spirits, each upon his own bark staid.
We to behold His Glory's skirts had leave.