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Page 72 - In fine weather and foul weather The rock his arts did flout, Through the long days and the short days, Till all that year ran out. With fine weather and foul weather Another year came in ; " To take his wage," the workmen said,
Page 71 - 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.
Page 64 - WINSTANLEY'S deed, you kindly folk, With it I fill my lay, And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, Let his name be what it may. The good ship " Snowdrop" tarried long, Up at the vane looked he; " Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped,
Page 73 - A Scottish schooner made the port, The thirteenth day at e'en ; "As I am a man," the captain cried, "A strange sight I have seen : " And a strange sound heard, my masters all, At sea, in the fog and the rain, Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, Then loud, then low again.
Page 64 - Then stepped two mariners down the street, With looks of grief and fear : ' Now, if Winstanley be your name, We bring you evil cheer. ' For the good ship " Snowdrop " struck — she struck On the rock — the Eddystone, And down she went with threescore men, We two being left alone. ' Down in the deep, with freight and crew, Past any help she lies, And never a bale has come to shore 53 ' For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,' Winstanley said, and sighed, ' For velvet coif, or costly coat, They fathoms...
Page 70 - 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 dead ; A seventy-gun ship, sir ! — they'll shoot Higher than her mast-head.
Page 75 - None in the town that night lay down Or sleep or rest to win. The great mad waves were rolling graves, And each flung up its dead; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead.