At length here stand we, wrapt as in the cloud
In which light dwelt before the sun was born,
When the great fiat issued, in the morn
Of this fair world; alone and in a shroud
Of dazzling mist, while the wind whistling loud
Buffets thy streaming locks:--result forlorn
For us who up yon steep our way have worn,
Elate with hope, and of our daring proud.
Yet though no stretch of glorious prospect range
Beneath our vision,--neither Scottish coast
Nor ocean--island, nor the future boast
Of far--off hills descried,--I would not change
For aught on earth this solitary hour
Of Nature's grandest and most sacred power.