See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off Pours down the golden radiance of his light Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair, But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm, When forth for India sail’d, in evil time, That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told, Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3]. Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle, She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art, To gain the port within it, or at worst To shun that harbourless and hollow coast From Portland eastward to the Promontory[4], Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands. But art nor strength avail her—on she drives, In storm and darkness to the fatal coast: And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent To the Philippines o’er the Southern main From Acapulco, carrying massy gold, Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth, And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed By mortal terrors, and paternal Love Strong, and unconquerable even in death— Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour! Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track Of many indenting wheels, heavy and light, That in their different courses as they pass, Rush violently down precipitate, Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep. Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine, From Shipton’s[5] bottom to the lofty down Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art Through park or flowery garden for delight. Nor less delightful this—if, while he mounts Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause To view the prospect oft, as oft to see Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived By fancy, or choice, but of necessity, By soft gradations of ascent to lead The labouring and way-worn feet along, And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up, Or nearer to the top, behold a cot, O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores, Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench Invites to short refreshment, and to taste What grateful beverage the house may yield After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’d The TRAVELLER’S REST. Welcome, embower’d seat, Friendly repose to the slow passenger Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way Along th’ interminable road, stretch’d out Over th’ unshelter’d down; or when at last He has that hard and solitary path Measured by painful steps. And blest are they, Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pause After a march of glory: yet not such As rise in causeless war, troubling the world By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood Hail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earth