Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 90 Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play 95 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. 100 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tosst,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass
lost,

And day by day some current's thwarting force
105 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet, Oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;
110 But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents passed into the skies!

And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 115 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine:

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, 120 Time has but half succeeded in his theftThy self removed, thy power to soothe me left.

The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!

5 Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.

A land-breeze shook the shrouds,
10 And she was over set;

Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone;
15 His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;

20 She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

25 Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,
30 And she may float again

Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;

35 And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

THE CAST-AWAY

(March 20, 1799)

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
5 Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home forever left.

No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast 10 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;

15 Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;

But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had failed

20 To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.

25 Some succor yet they could afford;
And such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delayed not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore, 30 What e'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seemed, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;

35 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, 40 His destiny repelled;

And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—“ Adieu!”

At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before

45 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 50 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.

55 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 60 Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allayed,
No light propitious shone,

When, snatched from all effectual aid,
We perished, each alone:

65 But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.

William Blake

1757-1827

TO THE MUSES

(From Poetical Sketches, 1783)

Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun that now
From ancient melody have ceased;

5 Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove 10 Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;