No, no, it shall not be; the poet's eye Shall yet flash fire, his heart shall never fail, Though round about him, blanching in the gale, His fellows falter——Waves, be not too high; Mere height proves nothing. Leave, oh leave me dry. Down, waves! Down, fluttering heart! Why should I quail? Here in the packet of the Royal Mail I tread the deck and do disdain to fly.
But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!— yes, yes!— Again I say it shall not be—no, no!— At least not yet—but yet I do confess A craven yearning draws me down below. Curst be the words in which I erst did bless The towering billows——Steward! yo, heave, ho!
III.
Was it for this I left the pleasant strand Of England, and the leafy country lanes, The ploughs, the cattle, and the creaking wains? Ye sounds that only poets understand, Of sheep-bells tinkling o'er a sunny land, Was it for this I left you, for the gains Of dew-sprent brow and deep internal pains, Of feeble voice and nerveless clammy hand?
Never again shall ocean with his roar Attract me from the firm-built homes of men. Let others steer from shore to farthest shore, Climbing the liquid hills that now and then Break and o'erwhelm them—I shall roam no more, Once landed on old Dover Pier again.
THE PROFESSOR OF THE PERIOD.
When Drummond wrote of the Ascent of Man, He did not think of the Descent of Woman Upon his poor doomed head. The Assyrian Did not "come down" with wrath more superhuman, Or more like a fierce wolf upon the fold: Mrs. Lynn Linton, sweetest mannered scold That ever heresy to judgment summoned, Hath had her dainty will, and drummed out Drummond! Give us a gentle lady, without bias, To play Apollo to a new Marsyas!
