The shifting wind 's no longer east ; Yet you have put the helm about, To come ashore, and join the rout? "We go to taste Of London feast." Too late, my golden mariners! I have seen there these many years, And now you go too late; the board Too late, dear children of the sun; He stirs his plumy brow and wakes To draw the sunlight in. Mute sheep that pull the grasses soft In surly majesty. No fly so keen, no bee so bold, He frowns as though he guarded gold, And so when autumn winds blow late, And whirl the chilly wave, He bows before the common fate, And drops beside his grave. Smile on, brave weed! let none inquire Let others toil for others' good, And miss or mar their own ; |