Envoy to Fo'c's'le Yarns: Go Back!

But now
From the brow
Of old Skiddaw, high-perched
On the last of the cairns,
Myself and my bairns,
We searched
For our sweetest of sweet little Hesperids;
And our lids
Were stung
By the " saut "
Sharp slung
From the wall
Of a squall,
That wrought,
And blurred,
And slurred
The air
Out there,
So that nought
Of our Isle,
The while,
Could we see,
But a film of the faintest ivory.
Just half-way down the slope we sit, —
When, suddenly, the sky is lit —
Look, look! as through a sliding panel
Of pearl, our Mona! Has she crossed the Channel
For us? that there she lies almost
A portion of the Cumbrian coast?
Dark purple peaks against the sun,
A gorgeous thing to look upon?
Nay, darling of my soul! I fear
To see your beauty come so near —
I would not have it! This is not your rest —
Go back, go back, into your golden West!