While as Canute the king is rowing by;
My oarsman, quoth the mighty king, draw near
That we the sweet songs of the monks may hear.
He listens (all past conquests and all schemes
Of future vanishing like empty dreams)
Heart-touched, and haply not without a tear,
The royal minstrel, ere the Choir is still,
While his free barge skims the smooth flood along
Gives to the rapture an accordant Rhyme
O suffering Earth! be thankful; sternest Clime