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By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er for-
got.
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Where once
we dwelt our name is
heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery
floor;

And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped

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In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped,

Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent.

He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;

ΙΟ

Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 15
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;

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5

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.

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