There stay in joy,
  Pluck, pluck, and eat thou happy boy;
  Sad fate abides thee.  Thou mayst grow
  A man:  for God may deem it so,
  I wish thee no such harm, sweet child: 
  Go, whilst thou’rt innocent and mild: 
  Go, ere earth’s passions, fierce and proud,
  Rend thee as lightning rend the cloud: 
  Go, go, life’s day is in the dawn: 
  Go, wait not, wish not to be man.

One of his pieces we quote entire:—­

THE SEA KING’S DEATH-SONG.

  I’ll launch my gallant bark no more,
    Nor smile to see how gay
  Its pennon dances, as we bound
    Along the watery way;
  The wave I walk on’s mine—­the god
    I worship is the breeze;
  My rudder is my magic rod
    Of rule, on isles and seas: 
  Blow, blow, ye winds, for lordly France,
    Or shores of swarthy Spain: 
  Blow where ye list, of earth I’m lord,
    When monarch of the main.

  When last upon the surge I rode,
    A strong wind on me shot,
  And tossed me as I toss my plume,
    In battle fierce and hot. 
  Three days and nights no sun I saw,
    Nor gentle star nor moon;
  Three feet of foam dash’d o’er my decks,
    I sang to see it—­soon
  The wind fell mute, forth shone the sun,
    Broad dimpling smiled the brine;
  I leap’d on Ireland’s shore, and made
    Half of her riches mine.

  The wild hawk wets her yellow foot
    In blood of serf and king: 
  Deep bites the brand, sharp smites the axe,
    And helm and cuirass ring;
  The foam flies from the charger’s flanks,
    Like wreaths of winter’s snow;
  Spears shiver, and the bright shafts start
    In thousands from the bow—­
  Strike up, strike up, my minstrels all
    Use tongue and tuneful chord—­
  Be mute!—­My music is the clang
    Of cleaving axe and sword.

  Cursed be the Norseman who puts trust
    In mortar and in stone;
  Who rears a wall, or builds a tower,
    Or makes on earth his throne;
  My monarch throne’s the willing wave,
    That bears me on the beach;
  My sepulchre’s the deep sea surge,
    Where lead shall never reach;
  My death-song is the howling wind,
    That bends my quivering mast,—­
  Bid England’s maidens join the song,
    I there made orphans last.

  Mourn, all ye hawks of heaven, for me
    Oft, oft, by frith and flood,
  I called ye forth to feast on kings;
    Who now shall give ye food? 
  Mourn, too, thou deep-devouring sea,
    For of earth’s proudest lords
  We served thee oft a sumptuous feast
    With our sharp shining swords;
  Mourn, midnight, mourn, no more thou’lt hear
    Armed thousands shout my name. 
  Nor see me rushing, red wet shod,
    Through cities doomed to flame.