Life’s but a straw, that’s piped upon by winds,
Fluttering to different tunes at every blast;
But he is strong who conquers what he finds,
Dragging it onward, as the unyielding mast
Toils up the wave, and draws, from victory won,
Fresh presage, and fresh purpose, for the fight:
So let man struggle upward; like the sun
Ne’er slacken, till he sinks beneath the night;
Swell action’s tide, that rolls along the world,
Or force from Nature secrets undisclosed;
Or, if less apt to be thus rudely whirl’d,
Rest in this din on sure content reposed.
These words sound fair, but Passion scorns such strains,
And mocks Endeavour with her empty pains.