Through the bright Virgin, and the Scales, had run,
And on the Ecliptic wheel'd his winding way,
Till the fierce Scorpion felt his flaming ray.
Four days becalm'd the vessel here remains, 90
And yet no hopes of aiding wind obtains;
For sickening vapours lull the air to sleep,
And not a breeze awakes the silent deep:
This, when the autumnal equinox is o'er,
And Phoebus in the north declines no more,
The watchful mariner, whom Heaven informs,
Oft deems the prelude of approaching storms.
No dread of storms the master's soul restrain,
A captive fetter'd to the oar of gain:
His anxious heart, impatient of delay, 100
Expects the winds to sail from Candia's bay,
Determined, from whatever point they rise,
To trust his fortune to the seas and skies.
Thou living ray of intellectual fire,
Whose voluntary gleams my verse inspire,
Ere yet the deepening incidents prevail,
Till roused attention feel our plaintive tale;
Record whom chief among the gallant crew
The unblest pursuit of fortune hither drew!
Can sons of Neptune, generous, brave, and bold, 110
In pain and hazard toil for sordid gold?
They can! for gold too oft with magic art
Can rule the passions, and corrupt the heart:
This crowns the prosperous villain with applause,
To whom in vain sad merit pleads her cause;
This strews with roses life's perplexing road,