 | Poems, by Joseph Cottle |  |
71
How much should man foul Anger's ocean flee!
High on whose surge his giddy bark is toss'd,
His rudder broken, and his anchor lost;
Whilst hidden fires his frantic bosom scorch,
Whilst to his eye the Furies hold their torch;
Adjust each feature with satanic grace,
And dance their orgies round his kindred face.
| Poems, by Joseph Cottle | |