LXXXII.

_Thy_ form, thou Son of God!--a wrathful deep, With foam, and cloud, and tempest round Thee spread, And such a weight of night!--a night, when sleep From the fierce rocking of the billows fled. A bark show’d dim beyond Thee, with its mast Bow’d, and its rent sail shivering to the blast; But, like a spirit in thy gliding tread, Thou, as o’er glass, didst walk that stormy sea Through rushing winds, which left a silent path for Thee.