“For all his looks that are so stout,
  And his speeches brave and fair,
He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave,
  But he’ll build no lighthouse there.”

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,
  “We almost count a sin.”

Now March was gone, came April in,
  And a sea-fog settled down,
And forth sailed he on a glassy sea,
  He sailed from Plymouth town.

With men and stores he put to sea,
  As he was wont to do;
They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,—­
  A ghostly craft and crew.

And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway,
  For a long eight days and more;
“God help our men,” quoth the women then;
  “For they bide long from shore.”

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread: 
  “Where may our mariners be?”
But the brooding fog lay soft as down
  Over the quiet sea.

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.

“And a stately house one instant showed,
  Through a rift, on the vessel’s lee;
What manner of creatures may be those
  That build upon the sea?”

Then sighed the folk, “The Lord be praised!”
  And they flocked to the shore amain;
All over the Hoe that livelong night,
  Many stood out in the rain.

It ceased, and the red sun reared his head,
  And the rolling fog did flee;
And, lo! in the offing faint and far
  Winstanley’s house at sea!

In fair weather with mirth and cheer
  The stately tower uprose;
In foul weather, with hunger and cold,
  They were content to close;

Till up the stair Winstanley went,
  To fire the wick afar;
And Plymouth in the silent night
  Looked out, and saw her star.

Winstanley set his foot ashore;
  Said he, “My work is done;
I hold it strong to last as long
  As aught beneath the sun.

“But if it fail, as fail it may,
  Borne down with ruin and rout,
Another than I shall rear it high,
  And brace the girders stout.

“A better than I shall rear it high,
  For now the way is plain,
And tho’ I were dead,” Winstanley said,
  “The light would shine again.

“Yet, were I fain still to remain,
  Watch in my tower to keep,
And tend my light in the stormiest night
  That ever did move the deep;

“And if it stood, why then ’twere good,
  Amid their tremulous stirs,
To count each stroke when the mad waves broke,
  For cheers of mariners.