Help me, O sweet voice of inspiration,
Help me sing one gentle lay
To the ocean's wide and deep creation,
Singing for us night and day.
And thou restless sea, with all thy wonders,
Touch my heart with melody;
For no bard can sing thy awful numbers
Uninspired indeed by thee.
'Twas a balmy evening in October,
As our train sped on its time,
That we came in sight of God's great ocean,
To the old Pacific brine.
Swiftly gliding down its ancient orbit,
The great monarch of the light
Dropped his golden smiles upon the water
Ere he bid us all goodnight.
* * * * *
Thou a preacher art to all the ages,
And thy audience all the world;
Lo! we read thy sermon on the pages
Of the book that God unfurled.
And to all that tread thy sand evirons
Thou dost thunder, yea, and show
How the human heart in sin's dominion
Never, never peace can know.
As thy waves in ceaseless turmoil labor,
And in fury beat the shore,
As they writhe and moan and dash asunder,
Rise and fall for evermore,
So the blasting hopes and guilty terrors
Of the sinner's wretched heart,
Restless, fearful, and despairing ever,
From his bosom never part.
Only One has sailed upon the bosom
Of the tempest-troubled sea,
Who could hush the winds and calm the billows--
He who spoke to Galilee.
Only he can break the storms of passion,
And rebuke the fears of hell;
Only he can calm the struggling spirit,
Speak the word, Be still, be still.
* * * * *
Oh, I bless thy kindness, friend Pacific,
For thy temporizing breath;
For the climate wafted from thee truly
Is an enemy to death.
Sweet and soft and balmy are thy breathings,
Keeping winter blasts away;
And I thank thee, Providence, that brought me
Here to San Diego Bay.
* * * * *
On this seacoast I would fondly linger,
Where the zephyrs gently breathe
O'er the vineyards vast, and lemon orchards,
Where the bright pomegranates wave;
And the golden orange, figs, and guavas,
Apples, pears, and prunes abound;
With delicious nectarines and peaches,
Blessing all the season round.
Where the ocean moans its solemn numbers,
And the sun outpours its gold
On the clouds which hang, while twilight lingers,
O'er the sea-waves rising bold.
And the glorious king of day, descending,
Bids the vintage toilers rest,
While he cools his fevered brow each evening
On the great Pacific breast.