The port he seeks, obedient to her lord,
Hurls back the rebel to his lifted sword.
But why this idle toil to paint that day?
This time elaborately thrown away?
Words all in vain pant after the distress,
The height of eloquence would make it less;
Heavens! how the good man trembles!—
And is there a last day? and must there come
A sure, a fix'd, inexorable doom?
Ambition swell, and, thy proud sails to show,