In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;
O’er them, and o’er their names, the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a short memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating,[44] when the bark’s engulf’d;
It floats a moment, and is seen no more: 200
One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.
How few, beneath auspicious planets born
(Darlings of Providence! fond Fate’s elect!),
With swelling sails make good the promised port,