Who, struggling, long to scour the dusty plains.
But all these signs of tempest are forgot
As soon as seen, or p'rhaps are heeded not,
By our friend Peter, for behold his line
Gently unrolls and cleaves a watery mine.
With patient, anxious, fate-imploring look,
He trembling hopes that now his laden hook
May sink low down into the dark abyss,
Midst fishes' entrails, where it cannot miss
Its deadly hold; and where, till life shall fly,