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Frail mariners afloat without a chart,

They run before the wind through high seasbreaking;

And when they have made the shore throughevery shock,

*Tis odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock.

LXXV.

There is a flower called «Love in Idleness,*For which See Shakspeare’s ever bloominggarden j —

I will not make his great description less ,

And beg his British Godship's humble pardon,If in my extremity of rhyme's distress,

I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; —But though the flower is different, with theFrench

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry, « Voilit la Pertenche ! *