A DESCRIPTIVE ODE.
53
And are there then in human form
Monsters more savage than the storm,
Who from the gasping sufferer tear
The dripping weed?—who dare to reap
The inhuman harvest of the deep,
From half-drown'd victims whom the tempests spare?
Ah! yes! by avarice once possest,
No pity moves the rustic breast;
Callous he proves—as those who haply wait
Till I (a pilgrim weary worn)
To my own native land return,
With legal toils to drag me to my fate!
