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 reason's eye;
Yea, trust the guiding God—and go along the floating grave,
Though hid till now—yet now behold the New World o'er the wave!
With genius Nature ever stands in solemn union still,
And ever what the one foretells the other shall fulfil.