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, Supported by despair of life. He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd But so the furious blast prevail'd, 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, Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die He long survives, who lives an hour And so long he, with unspent power, And ever, as the minutes flew, At length, his transient respite past, No poet wept him; but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age, Is wet with Anson's tear : 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 allay'd, But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. W. Cowper CCVI TOMORROW In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail : A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be com pletely Secured by a neighbouring hill ; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly And while peace and plenty I find at my board, And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today May become Everlasting Tomorrow. J. Collins CCVII Life! I know not what thou art, And when, or how, or where we met Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; -Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,-but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. A. L. Barbauld The Golden Treasury Book Fourth CCVIII TO THE MUSES Whether on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, Where the melodious winds have birth Whether on crystal rocks ye rove Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove,Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry; How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move, The sound is forced, the notes are few. W. Blake CCIX ODE ON THE POETS Bards of Passion and of Mirth -Yes, and those of heaven commune Browsed by none but Dian's fawns; Thus ye live on high, and then Bards of Passion and of Mirth |