Then a stern man came out, and with a cloth
Lightly, as one well used to such a feat,
Swaddled the brute's propeller and its seat.

The skies grew darkling, and there went a rumour,
"The thing is off; he will not fly to-day;"
And forth we wandered, some in rare ill-humour,
But not, oh, not the bard. Yet this I say--
There are two kinds of courage: one's a boomer
Avid of gold and glory; this is A,
Crowned with a palm, and in her hands I see
Sheaves of press cuttings. There is also B.

Not venturesome, this last, to brave the billows,
To beard the panther in his hidden lair,
To probe the epiderms of armadillos,
Nor execute wild cart-wheels in the air;
But who shall say how much Britannia still owes
To B, the kind of courage that can bear
Dauntless to wait, whate'er the skies portend,
(Having paid entrance) to the bitter end?

The heavenly hero in his suit of leather
Soars through Olympus with the world beneath
Sometimes, and sometimes, owing to the weather,
Scratches his fixtures in the tempest's teeth.
Shall the high gods, who gaze on both together,
Count him the nobler, or confer their wreath
On the brave bull-dog bard, who risks his thews
Standing about all day in thin-soled shoes?