Upon the island left to roam,
When on the stream a wither’d tree
Was gliding rapid midst the foam!
The little Boat now onward prest,
Danc’d o’er the river’s bounding breast,
’Till dash’d impetuous, ’gainst the old tree’s side,
The Shepherd plung’d and groan’d, then sunk amid the tide.
XIX.
Old Trim, now doom’d his friend to see
Beating the foam with wasted breath,