Toils up the wave, and draws, from victory won,

Fresh presage, and fresh purpose, for the fight:

So let man struggle upward; like the sun

Ne’er slacken, till he sinks beneath the night;

Swell action’s tide, that rolls along the world,

Or force from Nature secrets undisclosed;

Or, if less apt to be thus rudely whirl’d,

Rest in this din on sure content reposed.

These words sound fair, but Passion scorns such strains,

And mocks Endeavour with her empty pains.

{66}

{66}

LXVI.

How should the cloud cry to the summer sea,

Take not the leaden impress from my sails?

How should the amorous eve not taste the glee

That mantles golden o’er its hills and vales?

Were ocean to contemn the rain’s increase,

Or woods to spurn the dew, and chide the wind;

Reft of their source, sudden they all would cease,

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