Venour, my brave boy-guardian, who at school
Taught me the grammar he had lately learnt,
And led me over noun and five-barr’d verb,
Where is he? There he sleeps below the waves
Of the Atlantic, there where all creation
Is mute, nor hears the voice that calls his name;
But others shall, and far and wide beyond.
When older prest around him and declared
He could not sail, for sure the Admiral
Knew not Calypso’s state, he thus replied,
My orders are to sail: he sail’d.. and sank.
Short is my story: I could be prolix,
But the small casket holds things valued most.