But ah! continu'd Doubts, returning Pains,
And num'rous Dangers wait the Fishing Swains.
Fond Hope with Dreams of fancy'd Gain delights,
And to new Toils their restless Minds invites.
The Fishers labour not on certain Ground,
But in a leaky Boat are tost around.
Here fierce succeeding Waves tumultuous beat,
Roar by their Sides, and swift Destruction threat.
Now murm'ring Winds disturb the careful Wight,
Now black'ning Clouds, and gath'ring Storms affright.
They tremble, who secure from Land behold
Contending Waves in angry Conflict roll'd.
No shelt'ring Coverts here the Swain befriend,
When Clouds condens'd in noisy Streams descend.
No Tree from cold bleak Winds, or falling Sleet,
Nor Shade secures from Autumn's sickly Heat.
Here to the scented Game no Dog can guide;
Their native Fish the circling Eddies hide,
And thro' the trackless Deep unseen they sportive glide.
Besides loud threat'ning Storms, and sudden Winds,
He meets vast Whales, and monstrous nameless Kinds.
The slender-woven Net, vimineous Weel,
The taper Angle, Line, and barbed Steel,
Are all the Tools his constant Toil employs;
On Arms like these the Fishing Swain relies.