At length the waves are hush’d in peace, O’er flying clouds the sun prevails; 10 The weary winds their efforts cease, And fill no more the flagging sails; Fix’d to the deep the vessel rides Obedient to the changing tides; No helm she feels, no course she keeps, But on the liquid marble sleeps. Sick of a Calm the sailor lies, And views the still, reflecting seas; Or, whistling to the burning skies, He hopes to wake the slumbering breeze. 20 The silent noon, the solemn night, The same dull round of thoughts excite; Till, tired of the revolving train, He wishes for the Storm again. Thus, when I felt the force of Love, When all the passion fill’d my breast— When, trembling, with the storm I strove, And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest: ’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife For ease, for joy, for more than life: 30 ’Twas every hour to groan and sigh In grief, in fear, in jealousy. I suffer’d much, but found at length Composure in my wounded heart; The mind attain’d its former strength, And bade the lingering hopes depart; Then Beauty smiled, and I was gay, I view’d her as the cheerful day; And, if she frown’d, the clouded sky Had greater terrors for mine eye. 40 I slept, I waked, and, morn and eve, The noon, the night appear’d the same; No thought arose the soul to grieve, To me no thought of pleasure came; Doom’d the dull comforts to receive Of wearied passions still and tame.— “Alas!” I cried, when years had flown— “Must no awakening joy be known? Must never Hope’s inspiring breeze Sweep off this dull and torpid ease— 50 Must never Love’s all-cheering ray Upon the frozen fancy play— Unless they seize the passive soul, And with resistless power control? Then let me all their force sustain, And bring me back the Storm again!” SATIRE. I love not the satiric Muse: No man on earth would I abuse; Nor with empoison’d verses grieve The most offending son of Eve. Leave him to law, if he have done What injures any other son! It hardens man to see his name Exposed to public mirth or shame; And rouses, as it spoils his rest, The baser passions of his breast. 10 Attack a book—attack a song— You will not do essential wrong; You may their blemishes expose, And yet not be the writer’s foes. But, when the man you thus attack, And him expose with critic art, You put a creature to the rack— You wring, you agonise, his heart. No farther honest Satire can In all her enmity proceed, 20 Than, passing by the wicked Man, To execrate the wicked Deed.