"
"You are one of many," the old Mayor said,
"That on the rock complain.
"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right,
Well with my thoughts they chime,
For my two sons to the world to come
It sent before their time."
"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor,
And a score of shipwrights free,
For I think to raise a lantern tower
On this rock o' destiny."
The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also;
"Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash;
Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out
From the sea that doth it lash.
"Who sails too near its jagged teeth,
He shall have evil lot;
For the calmest seas that tumble there
Froth like a boiling pot.
"And the heavier seas few look on nigh,
But straight they lay him in dead;
A seventy-gun-ship, sir!--they'll shoot
Higher than her mast-head.
"O, beacons sighted in the dark,
They are right welcome things,
And pitchpots flaming on the shore
Show fair as angel wings.
"Hast gold in hand? then light the land,
It 'longs to thee and me;
But let alone the deadly rock
In God Almighty's sea."
Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away,
On the rock to set my feet;
My debts are paid, my will I made,
Or ever I did thee greet.
"If I must die, then let me die
By the rock and not elsewhere;
If I may live, O let me live
To mount my lighthouse stair."
The old Mayor looked him in the face,
And answered, "Have thy way;
Thy heart is stout, as if round about
It was braced with an iron stay:
"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men,
Put off from the storm-rid shore;
God with thee be, or I shall see
Thy face and theirs no more.
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