The Voyagers.

WHilst Stemming Life's uncertain Tide,
Tost on the Waves of Doubts and Fears,
If to frail Reason's Conduct we Confide
We strive in vain
The happy Port to gain,
For oft as Clouded Reason disappears
We cannot fail to Rove afarr
Mistaking each false Meteor for our Starr. 
How dismall are the Perills we engage
When (grown t'a Hurricane)
Our boist'rous Passions Rouze the sleeping Main?
But ah! how Few have perisht by the Rage
Of Storms, if numbred with the dayly Throng
Whom Syren Pleasures as they fail along
Seduce to the dead shore,
Where They saw others wreckt before,
Yet still pursue though certain to be Lost;
For if from their cleft Boat they climb the Coast
They fall into the treach'rous Syrens Pow'r
Who Entertain them first, and then Devour.