Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away; But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted: nor his friends had failed They left their outcast mate behind, Some succour yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, He long survives who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried-" Adieu !" At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him: but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age, And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, To give the melancholy theme But misery still delights to trace No voice divine the storm allayed, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. PROVIDENCE. God moves in a mysterious way, He plants his footsteps in the sea, Deep in unfathomable mines He treasures up his bright designs, Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, His purposes will ripen fast, The bud may have a bitter taste, Blind unbelief is sure to err, God is his own interpreter, Warton. ODE TO FANCY. O PARENT of each lovely Muse! An all-commanding magic wand; Say, in what deep and pathless vale, |