THE CASTAWAY. 479 



' Obscurest night involved the sky, 



The Atlantic billows rolled, 

 When such a destined wretch as I, 



Washed headlong from on board, 

 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, 

 His floating home for ever left. 



' 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 long survives who lives an hour 



In ocean, self-upheld : 

 And so long he, with unspent power, 



His destiny repelled ; 

 And ever, as the minutes flew, 

 Entreated help, or cried " Adieu ! " 



' At length, his transient respite past, 



His comrades, who before 

 Had heard his voice in every blast, 

 Could catch the sound no more. 

 For then, by toil subdued, he drank 

 The stifling wave, and then he sank. 



* No poet wept him : but the page 



Of narrative sincere, 

 That tells his name, his worth, his age, 



Is wet with Anson's tear ; 

 And tears by bards or heroes shed 

 Alike immortalize the dead. 



* I therefore purpose not, or dream, 



Descanting on his fate, 

 To give the melancholy theme 



A more enduring date : 

 But misery still delights to trace 

 Its semblance in another's case. 



' No voice divine the storm allayed, 



No light propitious shone, 

 When, snatched from all effectual aid, 



We perished, each alone : 

 But I beneath a rougher sea, 

 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.' 



