The Ideal and the Actual.

My boat is on the bounding tide,      Away, away from surge and shore;     A waif upon the wave I ride,      Without a rudder or an oar.     Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow      The compass now is nought to me;     Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow,      If but ye bear me out to sea.     Yon waving line of dusky blue,      Where care and toil oppress the heart     To thee I bid a long adieu,      And smile to feel that thus we part.     There let the sweating ploughman toil,      The yearning miser count his gain,     The fevered scholar waste his oil,      But I am bounding o'er the main!     How fresh these breezes to the brow      How dear this freedom to the soul;     Bright ocean, I am with thee now,      So let thy golden billows roll!      * * * * *     But stay what means this throbbing brain      This heaving chest these pulses quick?     Oh, take me to the land again,      For I am very, very sick!