George Gordon Noel Byron

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.

That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the dinner bell.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,--
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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell--
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave,--
Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave.

Not fewer than three nor more than nine.
[Lat., Neque pauciores tribus, neque plures novem.]

Not fewer than three nor more than nine.
[Lat., Neque pauciores tribus, neque plures novem.]

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.