Down the tall Masts the top-sails sink amain, Four hours the Sun his high meridian throne Still blacker clouds, that all the skies invade, A lowering Squall obscures the southern sky, In such a Tempest, borne to deeds of death, Bear up the Helm a-weather! RODMOND cries: Swift at the word the helm a-weather flies; With ardent eye the Falcon marks his prey, a Each motion watches of the doubtful chace, Obliquely wheeling through the fluid space; But now, Again she rallies to the sullen blast: The Helm to starboard moves; each shivering Sail The Fore-Sail braced obliquely to the wind, To Top-Sails next they haste; the buntlines gone! The Bow-lines hauled, and Yards to starboard braced, And straggling ropes in pendant order placed. |