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!