Classic Poem

Touch but with gentlest finger the crystal that circles the Mariner's Guide—
To the East and the West how it drifts, and trembles, and searches on every side!
But it comes to its rest, and its light lance poises only one self-same way
Since ever a ship spread her marvellous sea-wings, or plunged her swan-breast through the spray—
For North points the needle!

Ye look not alone for the sign of the lode-star; the lode-stone, too, lendeth cheer;
Yet one in the heavens is established forever, and one is compelled through the sphere.
What! and ye chide not the fluttering magnet that seemeth to fly its troth,
Yet even now is again recording its fealty's silent oath—
As North points the needle!

Praise ye bestow that, though mobile and frail as tremulous spheret of dew,
It obeys an imperial law that ye know not (yet know that it guideth most true);
So are ye content with its fugitive guidance—ye, but the winds' and waves' sport!—
So are ye content to sail by your compass, and come in fair hour to your port;
For North points the needle!

And now, will ye censure, because, of compulsion, the spirit that rules in this breast,
To show what a poet must show, was attempered, and touched with a cureless unrest,
Swift to be moved with all human mutation, to traverse Passion's whole range?
Mood succeeds mood, and humor fleets humor, yet never heart's drift can they change,
For North points the needle!

Inconstant I were to that Sovereign Bidding (why or whence given, unknown),
Failed I to tent the entire round of motive ere sinking back to my own:
The error be yours, if ye think my faith erring or deem my allegiance I fly;
I follow my law and fulfil it all duly—and look! when your doubt runneth high—
North points the needle!