Mated with a squalid savage,—what to me were sun or clime?
I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time,—
I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one,
Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!
Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range;
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change.
Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun,—
Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun,
O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set;
Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet.
Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!
Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.
Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,
Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.