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Look yonder o'er the silver Bay,—those stately ships that stand
Anchored on the glowing deep—isles of artificial land;
They are the watcher's lodge, good friend!—this land the precious store,
And the King is he that watches, as you do, evermore.
This folk may neither speak nor write but as he gives them rule,
They must ask his leave to come or go—like children in a school.
The corn shall not grow up an inch, but it fees him for his grace;
The fig-trees rain him pennies, the water pays its pace;
Doth the wild bird bear his licence under his speckled wing?
If the wild bird comes to Sicily, it shall surely pay the King.
Yes, he watches well, as you do, a shrewd and careful man;
What watchfulness can keep, that will he keep, and can.
From his lodges he has built him,—ships and citadels of might,—
Lidless iron eyes are watching, watching, watching, day and night;
