The following poem was written in 1819, by an author whose identity remains unknown, and was published in The Pocket Magazine.[1]

The world is like a troubled sea,

The people little vessels are,

Which by the winds oft toss’d be,

The furious winds of grief and care.

The sea abounds with rocks and shoals,

On which these vessels oft are cast;

For foolish men, more blind than moles,

Will take no heed from dangers past.

Sometimes this sea doth smoothly glide,

Then men are filled with hope of joys;

Alas! The swift returning tide

Their idle vision soon destroys.

Oh, may I steer my little bark,

With more of skill, of rashness less,

Nor e’er lose sight of that landmark,

Heaven——which can succour in distress.

Be thou my pilot, be thou my guide,

Oh God amidst this stormy scene;

Grant me in that blest port to ride,

Where storms no more shall intervene.

[1] Anon. ‘The World is like a Troubled Sea’, The Pocket Magazine, vol. 3 (London: John Arliss, 1819), p. 119.