Will serve. By all the virgin spheres that glide
Like timid guests across sky-floor we note
Where lies the pole-star. Those who only quote
Their compass, fail, and antique charts must slide
To error, in this shifting sand of thought
And new-found science, where sweet isles of palm
And olive sink, that were as land-marks sought,
While others rise from Ocean’s fertile bed.
No storm, nor heat, nor cold I fear; my dread
Is lest the ship should meet a death-like calm.