He struck his talons firm and deep, Within the slippery prize, In hope his ruffian grasp to keep, And high and dry to rise.

Arm'd with her ivory beak, and talon-hands, 80 Descending FICA dives into the sands; Chamber'd in earth with cold oblivion lies; Nor heeds, ye Suitor-train, your amorous sighs; Erewhile with renovated beauty blooms, Mounts into air, and moves her leafy plumes.