"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, He shall have evil lot; For the calmest seas that tumble there Froth like a boiling pot. "And the heavier seas few look on nigh, But straight they lay him dead; A seventy-gun-ship, sir! - they'll shoot Higher than her masthead. "Oh, beacons sighted in the dark, They are right welcome things, And pitchpots flaming on the shore Show fair as angel wings. "Hast gold in hand? then light the land, It 'longs to thee and me; Yet said he, "Nay, I must away, "If I must die, then let me die By the rock, and not elswhere; If I may live, O let me live To mount my lighthouse stair." The old Mayor looked him in the face, And answered, "Have thy way; Thy heart is stout, as if round about It was braced with an iron stay: "Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, Put off from the storm-rid shore; Heavily plunged the breaking wave, Winstanley chose him men and gear; He said, "My time I waste,' For the seas ran seething up the shore, And the wrack drave on in haste. But twenty days he waited and more, Pacing the strand alone, Or ever he sat his manly foot On the rock, the Eddystone. |