I mean no giddy heights to climb, And vainly toil to be sublime; While every line with labour wrought, Is swell'd with tropes for want of thought: Nor shall I call the Muse to shed...
As wand'ring late on Albion's shore That chains the rude tempestuous deep, I heard the hollow surges roar And vainly beat her guardian steep; I heard the rising sounds of woe...