Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,
But still aspired to raise their sinking name,
And fondly hoped that name might ever last.
Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]
Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.
For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthened labours hoped to gain