Canute

When old Canute, the royal parricide,
Wielded his whip against the rising tide,
The rising tide, – confirmed odd democrat, –
Spit in the royal face and spoiled his hat; 
And unabashed by kingly wrath and pride
Drenched the fine purple and the regal-hide.
With haste undignified, and squelching feet,
His dripping Highness beat a base retreat,
While down the rattling shingle the spent wave
Among the pebbles a low chuckle gave.

The old man-killer, though mad, was politic;
Like a big dog who brought to land a stick,
He shook the brine off, snorted, and thus freed
His caustic temper on the sycophant breed
That flattered him to this ridiculous deed;
“There, you old idiots! maybe that’s enough
To get the idea through your crania tough,
So oft I’ve tried to teach you, that some things
Are not submissive to the will of the kings.
Now, once for all, I hope you are satisfied
That one of these things is the rising tide;
You see my patent-leathers wet as sop,
And my silk stockings watered to the top? 
If after this I am called to stop the sea
I’ll set your Honors between the wave and me; 
One tide, at least, will meet the check it needs, –
The tide of flattery from the courtier breeds, 
That, haply, nothing but a rounded peck
Of shore-sand in a swash of brine can check!
Over such dolts as you, and all the brute
Bipedal rabble, I am King Canute;
But over sunrise and the insolent tides
I surely think some other Power presides!”

O goodly Masters! of whatever kind,
Who strive to check the rising tide of mind,
To bid the billows of new truth and thought
Stand and revere the little dykes you’ve wrought, –
If, when the flood comes thundering up the beach, 
You are swept on beyond the next wave’s reach, 
Thank the quick stars you see, if, like Canute,
You buy your wit with only a wet suit.