Straight to the Mayor he took his way,
  “Good Master Mayor,” quoth he,
“I am a mercer of London town,
  And owner of vessels three,—­

“But for your rock of dark renown,
  I had five to track the main.” 
“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.”

Heavily plunged the breaking wave,
  And foam flew up the lea,
Morning and even the drifted snow
  Fell into the dark gray sea.

Winstanley chose him men and gear;
  He said, “My time I waste,”
For the seas ran seething up the shore,
  And the wrack drave on in haste.

But twenty days he waited and more,
  Pacing the strand alone,
Or ever he sat his manly foot
  On the rock,—­the Eddystone.

Then he and the sea began their strife,
  And worked with power and might: 
Whatever the man reared up by day
  The sea broke down by night.

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam,
  He sailed to shore at flow;
And at his side, by that same tide,
  Came bar and beam also.

“Give in, give in,” the old Mayor cried,
  “Or thou wilt rue the day.” 
“Yonder he goes,” the townsfolk sighed,
  “But the rock will have its way.