Since ever a ship spread her marvellous sea-wings, or plunged her swan-breast through the spray—
For North points the needle!
Ye look not alone for the sign of the lode-star; the lode-stone too lendeth cheer;
Yet one in the heavens is established forever, and one is compelled through the sphere.
What! and ye chide not the fluttering magnet that seemeth to fly its troth,
Yet even now is again recording its fealty’s silent oath—
As North points the needle!
Praise ye bestow that, though mobile and frail as a tremulous spheret of dew,
It obeys an imperial law that ye know not (yet know that it guideth most true);
So, are ye content with its fugitive guidance—ye, but the winds’ and waves’ sport!—