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 In ocean, self-upheld; And so long he, with unspent power, His destiny repell'd; 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 allay'd, No light propitious shone, When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he. _W. Cowper_ CCVI _TOMORROW_ In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea; With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow, And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn Look forward with hope for Tomorrow. With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game, And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame, Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighbouring hill; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill: And while peace and plenty I find at my board, With a heart free from sickness and sorrow, With my friends may I share what Today may afford, And let them spread the table Tomorrow. And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring Which I've worn for three-score years and ten, On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring, Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again: But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey, And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become Everlasting Tomorrow. _J. Collins_ CCVII