Classic Poem

— Sunt ipsa pericula tanti.

Her Viceroy now had Ireland 's Coast
Survey'd with his last parting Eye:
And now the less'ning Land was lost,
And all was only Sea and Sky;

When round the watr'y Mountains rise,
Rolling aloft in proud Array,
Roar the rough Winds, the Lightning flies,
And black'ning Clouds exclude the Day.

The lab'ring Bark no Stay nor Rest,
No Help or knows, or hopes to find;
In the wide distant Main distrest,
And to the Tempest's Rage resign'd.

But ah, her rich illustrious Freight!
Must They the dismal Horror share!
Must all be join'd in one sad Fate,
The Great, the Good, the Wise, the Fair!

That best-lov'd Man, whose princely Heart
With sweet Beneficence refin'd,
Practis'd so long the godlike Art
Of dealing Blessings to Mankind;

Him, through the angry Deep pursu'd,
Must such dire Scenes of Death invade!
Must, O ye Pow'rs that guard the Good,
His generous Virtue thus be paid!

What ardent Vows has Ireland sent,
Grateful for his auspicious Sway!
Whilst anxious for some dread Event,
Britannia mourns his long Delay,

But, blest be Heav'n's indulgent Care,
See all at once the Danger past!
The Vessel rescu'd from Despair
Has gain'd a friendly Port at last.

And now receives the noble Guest
His own fair Isle, his native Shore,
With Joy, by so much more increast,
By how much more she griev'd before.

Thus Fate with Human Passions plays,
And wakes the Tumults of the Soul;
More fierce impetuous Gusts they raise
Each from its Opposite's Controul.

Hence You, though surely This appears
A strange Assertion to be prov'd;
And yet, since You alarm'd our Fears,
Ev'n You, my Lord , are more belov'd.