Placed near his sprightly fire, he now demands Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke The trickling tears, cried-" Vengeance on the smoke!" Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's side: And now black Cybale before him stands, THE CAST-AWAY. MARCH 20, 1799. OBSCUREST night involved the sky, Wash'd headlong from on board, He loved them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, Nor soon he felt his strength decline, But waged with death a lasting strife, He shouted nor his friends had fail'd But so the furious blast prevail'd, That pitiless perforce, 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, Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 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, 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, We perish'd, each alone : And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. |