Could catch the sound no more.

For then by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page

Of narrative sincere, 50

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson’s tear.

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 55