O happy Tithon! if thou know'st thy hap,
And valuest thy wealth, as I my want,
Then need'st thou not-which ah! I grieve to grant-
Repine at Jove, lull'd in his leman's lap: ...
Her nature is the sea's, that smiles to-night
A radiant maiden in the moon's soft light;
The unsuspecting seaman sets his sails,
Forgetful of the fury of her gales;
To-morrow, mad with storms, the ocean roars,
And o'er his hapless wreck the flood she pours!