As it would seem my pleasant toil to share,
But straightway take their loads to distant marts,
For only weeds and ballast are their care.
'Tis by some strange coincidence, if I
Make common cause with ocean when he storms,
Who can so well support a separate sky,
And people it with multitude of forms.
Oft in the stillness of the night I hear
Some restless bird presage the coming din,