Page:Land in the ocean.pdf/4

 Then may victory's sword to the olive resign,

Pull away, &c

And peace crown the land in the ocean.

Faint and wearily the way-worn traveller,

Plods uncheerily, afraid to stop:

Wandering drearily a sad unraveller,

of the mazes 'tward the mountain's top:

Doubting, fearing,

As his course he's steering,

Cottages appearing

As he's nigh to drop:

Oh! how briskly then the way-worn traveller,

Treads the mazes 'tward the mountains top.

Though now melancholy day has pass'd by,

would be folly now to think on't more;

Blithe and Jolly he the cag holds fast by,

As he's sitting at the goatherd's door.

Eating quaffing,

At past labours laughing,

Better far, by half, in

Spirits than before;

Oh! how merry then the rested traveller,

Seems while sitting at the goat-herd's door