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For though he plough the sea when others sleep, He draws, like Glendower, spirits from the deep! And while the storm howls round, amidst his trouble, Bright moonshine still illuminates the cobble! Pale with her fears for him, some fair Poissarde, Watches his nearing boat; with fond regard Smiles when she sees his little canvas handing, And clasps her dripping lover on his landing.

More blest the Peasant, who, with nervous toil Hews the rough oak, or breaks the stubborn soil: Weary, indeed, he sees the evening come, But then, the rude, yet tranquil hut, his home, Receives its rustic inmate; then are his, Secure repose, and dear domestic bliss! The orchard's blushing fruit, the garden's store, The pendant hop, that mantles round the door,