PICTURE XV.

The storm hangs low; the angry lightning glares

And menaces destruction to our masts;

The Corposant is busy on the decks,

The soul, perhaps, of some lost admiral

Taking his walks about most leisurely,

Foreboding we shall be with him to-night:

See, now he mounts the shrouds — as he ascends

The gale grows bolder!— all is violence!

Seas, mounting from the bottom of their depths,

Hang o'er our heads with all their horrid curls

Threatening perdition to our feeble barques,

Which three hours longer cannot bear their fury,

Such heavy strokes already shatter them;

Who can endure such dreadful company!—

Then, must we die with our discovery!

Must all my labours, all my pains, be lost,

And my new world in old oblivion sleep?—

My name forgot, or if it be remember'd,

Only to have it said, “He was a madman

“Who perish'd as he ought — deservedly —

“In seeking what was never to be found!” —

Let's obviate what we can this horrid sentence,

And, lost ourselves, perhaps, preserve our name.

‘ Tis easy to contrive this painted casket,

( Caulk'd, pitch'd, secur'd with canvas round and round )

That it may float for months upon the main,

Bearing the freight within secure and dry:

In this will I an abstract of our voyage,

And islands found, in little space enclose:

The western winds in time may bear it home

To Europe's coasts: or some wide wandering ship

By accident may meet it toss'd about,

Charg'd with the story of another world.