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Thus shine they self-illum'd, or but display

The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day?

With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales, that

breathe

Now landward, and the current's force beneath,
Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,
Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.
Their lofty summits crested high, they show,
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow,
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,
Bleak Winter well-nigh saddens all the year,
Their infant growth began. He bade arise
Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.
Oft as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow
Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below,
He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast
The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.
By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,
And long successive ages roll'd the while,

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand
Tall as its rival mountains on the land.

Thus stood, and, unremovable by skill,
Or force of man, had stood the structure still;
But that, though firmly fixt, supplanted yet
By pressure of its own enormous weight,

It left the shelving beach—and, with a sound
That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,
Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,
As if instinct with strong desire to lave,

Down went the pond'rous mass. So bards of old,
How Delos swam th' Egean deep, have told.
But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore

Herb, fruit, and flow'r. She, crown'd with laurel,

wore,

Ev'n under wintry skies, a summer smile;

And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle.

But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you

He deems Cimmerian darkness only due,

Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey,
But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away.
Hence! Seek your home, nor longer rashly dare
The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air;
Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,
In no congenial gulph for ever lost!

THE CAST-AWAY.

[MARCH 20, 1799.]

OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,

When such a destin'd wretch as I,

Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.

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

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast

With warmer wishes sent.

He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again.

Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay;

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

But wag'd with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life.

He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

That, pitiless, perforce,

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

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

The cask, the

coop,

the floated cord,

Delay'd not to bestow.

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

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 pow'r,

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

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