Again they join in one loud powerful cry,
Then cease, and eager listen for reply;
None came—­the rising wind blew sadly by: 
They shout once more, and then they turn aside,
To see how quickly flow’d the coming tide;
Between each cry they find the waters steal
On their strange prison, and new horrors feel;
Foot after foot on the contracted ground
The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound;
Less and yet less the sinking isle became,
And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame. 
   Had one been there, with spirit strong and high,
Who could observe, as he prepared to die,
He might have seen of hearts the varying kind,
And traced the movement of each different mind: 
He might have seen, that not the gentle maid
Was more than stern and haughty man afraid;
Such, calmly grieving, will their fears suppress,
And silent prayers to Mercy’s throne address;
While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud,
Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd: 
The party’s patron, sorely sighing, cried,
“Why would you urge me?  I at first denied.” 
Fiercely they answer’d, “Why will you complain,
Who saw no danger, or was warn’d in vain?”
A few essay’d the troubled soul to calm,
But dread prevail’d, and anguish and alarm. 
   Now rose the water through the lessening sand,
And they seem’d sinking while they yet could stand. 
The sun went down, they look’d from side to side,
Nor aught except the gathering sea descried;
Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew,
And the most lively bade to hope adieu: 
Children by love then lifted from the seas,
Felt not the waters at the parent’s knees,
But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound,
And the cold billows as they broke around. 
   “Once more, yet once again, with all our strength,
Cry to the land—­we may be heard at length.” 
Vain hope if yet unseen! but hark! an oar,
That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore;
Still, still the water rises; “Haste!” they cry,
“Oh! hurry, seamen; in delay we die;”
(Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived
The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.)
And now the keel just cuts the cover’d sand,
Now to the gunwale stretches every hand: 
With trembling pleasure all confused embark,
And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark;
While the most giddy, as they reach the shore,
Think of their danger, and their god adore.

LETTER X.

Non iter lances mensasque nitentes,
Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, et cum
Acclinis falsis animus meliora recusat: 
Verum hic impransi mecum disquirite. 
                             Horace, Satires.

                         O prodiga rerum

Luxuries, nunquam parvo contenta paratu,
Est quaesitorum terra pelagoque ciborum
Ambitiosa fames, et lautae gloria mensae. 
                         Lucan, Pharsalia.