With fluttering seamews on the moist, soft strand.
I follow fortune not, where'er she lead.
Lord o'er myself, I banish her, compel
And though her clouds should rain no blessed dew,
Though she withhold the crown, the heart's desire,
Though all deceive, though honey change to gall,
Still am I Lord, and will in freedom strive.
TO A DETRACTOR.
The Autumn promised, and he keeps