Classic Poem

Then rising in his Rage above the Shores,
From all his Deep the bellowing River roars,
Huge Heaps of Slain disgorges on the Coast,
And round the Banks the ghastly Dead are tost.
While all before, the Billows rang'd on high
(A wat'ry Bulwark) screen the Bands who fly.
Now bursting on his Head with thund'ring Sound,
The falling Deluge whelms the Hero round:
His loaded Shield bends to the rushing Tide;
His Feet, upborn, scarce the strong Flood divide,
Slidd'ring, and stagg'ring. On the Border stood
A spreading Elm, that overhung the Flood;
He seiz'd a bending Bough, his Steps to stay;
The Plant uprooted to his Weight gave way,
Heaving the Bank, and undermining all;
Loud flash the Waters to the rushing Fall
Of the thick Foliage. The large Trunk display'd
Bridg'd the rough Flood across: The Hero stay'd
On this his Weight, and rais'd upon his Hand,
Leap'd from the Chanel, and regain'd the Land.
Then blacken'd the wild Waves; the Murmur rose;
The God pursues, a huger Billow throws,
And bursts the Bank, ambitious to destroy
The Man whose Fury is the Fate of Troy.
He, like the warlike Eagle speeds his Pace,
(Swiftest and strongest of th' aerial Race)
Far as a Spear can fly, Achilles springs
At every Bound; His clanging Armour rings:
Now here, now there, he turns on ev'ry side,
And winds his Course before the following Tide;
The Waves flow after, wheresoe'er he wheels,
And gather fast, and murmur at his Heels.
So when a Peasant to his Garden brings
Soft Rills of Water from the bubbling Springs,
And calls the Floods from high, to bless his Bow'rs
And feed with pregnant Streams the Plants and Flow'rs;
Soon as he clears whate'er their passage staid,
And marks the future Current with his Spade,
Swift o'er the rolling Pebbles, down the Hills
Louder and louder purl the falling Rills,
Before him scatt'ring, they prevent his pains,
And shine in mazy Wand'rings o'er the Plains.
Still flies Achilles, but before his eyes
Still swift Scamander rolls where'er he flies:
Not all his Speed escapes the rapid Floods;
The first of Men, but not a Match for Gods.
Oft' as he turn'd the Torrent to oppose,
And bravely try if all the Pow'rs were Foes;
So oft' the Surge, in wat'ry Mountains spread,
Beats on his Back, or bursts upon his Head.
Yet dauntless still the adverse Flood he braves,
And still indignant bounds above the Waves.
Tir'd by the Tides, his Knees relax with Toil;
Wash'd from beneath him, slides the slimy Soil;
When thus (his Eyes on Heav'ns Expansion thrown)
Forth bursts the Hero with an angry Groan.
Is there no God Achilles to befriend,
No Pow'r t'avert his miserable End?
Prevent, oh Jove! this ignominious Date,
And make my future Life the Sport of Fate…
Like some vile Swain, whom, on a rainy Day,
Crossing a Ford, the Torrent sweeps away,
An unregarded Carcase to the Sea.