IV.—THE BRITISH FISHERMAN.
I
Let Spain's proud traders, when the mast
Bends groaning to the stormy blast,
Run to their beads with wretched plaints,
And vow and bargain with their saints,
Lest Turkish silks or Tyrian wares
Sink in the drowning ship,
Or the rich dust Peru prepares,
Defraud their long projecting cares,
And add new treasures to the greedy deep.
II
My little skiff, that skims the shores,
With half a sail and two short oars,
Provides me food in gentler waves:
But if they gape in watery graves,
I trust th'eternal power, whose hand
Has swell'd the storm so high,
To waft my boat and me to land,
Or give some angel swift command
To bear the drowning sailor to the sky.
