In such a tempest, borne to deeds of death,
The wayward sisters scour the blasted heath. 160
The clouds, with ruin pregnant, now impend;
And storm, and cataracts, tumultuous blend.
Deep on her side the reeling vessel lies:
Brail up the mizen [9] quick! the master cries,
Man the clue-garnets! [10] let the main-sheet fly!
It rends in thousand shivering shreds on high!
The main-sail all in streaming ruins tore,
Loud fluttering, imitates the thunder's roar:
The ship still labours in the oppressive strain,
Low bending, as if ne'er to rise again. 170
Bear up the helm a-weather! [11] Rodmond cries:
Swift at the word the helm a-weather flies;
She feels its guiding power, and veers apace,
And now the fore-sail right athwart they brace:
With equal sheets restrain'd, the bellying sail
Spreads a broad concave to the sweeping gale.
While o'er the foam the ship impetuous flies,
The helm the attentive timoneer [12] applies:
As in pursuit along the aerial way
With, ardent eye the falcon marks his prey, 180
Each motion watches of the doubtful chase,
Obliquely wheeling through the fluid space;
So, govern'd by the steersman's glowing hands,
The regent helm her motion still commands.
But now the transient squall to leeward past,
Again she rallies to the sullen blast:
The helm to starboard [13] moves; each shivering sail
Is sharply trimm'd to clasp the augmenting gale.