Hid in their tawny cleft, the fisher clan,
Untravelled, seldom climbing to the moor,
With the wild ocean knocking at their door,
Wage the same war their forefathers began;
Build the same boats; the same nets weave and tan
Eat the same bread, salt-savoured, and are poor;
Content in hopeless labour to endure,
Till death shall find for them a nobler plan.
But some there are, adventurous souls, who feel
Fresh inspiration from their prison bars;
And, stirred by narrow confines such as these,
Go forth to plant beneath their roving keel
This solid earth, this canopy of stars,
And bring back word of the Antipodes.
(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 149)