Iii

The Spot Where Cook Landed

Chaotic crags are huddled east and west-- Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest Of voiceless rest where never dwelleth rest, With noise "like thunder everlasting." But here, behold a silent space of sand!-- Oh, pilgrim, halt!--it even seems to be Asleep in other years. How still! How grand! How awful in its wild solemnity! This is the spot on which the Chief did land, And there, perchance, he stood what time a band Of yelling strangers scoured the savage lea. Dear friend, with thoughtful eyes look slowly round-- By all the sacred Past 'tis sacred ground.