Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.
Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.