O could it draw compassion’s melting tear
For kindred miseries, oft beheld too near!
For kindred wretches, oft in ruin cast
On Albion’s strand beneath the wintery blast;
For all the pangs, the complicated woe,
Her bravest sons, her guardian sailors know;
Then every breast should sigh at our distress—
This were the summit of my hoped success!
For this, my theme through mazes I pursue,
Which nor Mæonides, nor Maro knew.