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Where awkward whales the foamy waves assail,
And lash the marbles with their forky tail.
The sunless cave of keels, a countless store,
And rudders that obey the hand no more;
Of many a founder'd ship, within whose hold
The captain's gallant heart has long been cold.
These sapphire seas by right to us belong,
For whom the bard has rais'd the lofty song;
Nicæa, and Cymodoce the fair,

And Galatea with her golden hair.

They paus'd-I felt the warm gush of their tears,

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And waken'd with my

horror and my fears.

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VIII.

Hoarse o'er the main the gathering surges rise
With heaving throws, and bellow to the skies,
In darkness shrouded-not a waking beam,
No star to twinkle, and no moon to gleam.
Dashing the deep, our bare-pol'd bark is borne, 445
Swift as a rein-deer from the sounding horn-
A thing appal'd, she flies before the wind,
Sweeps on, and leaves long foamy tracks behind.

IX.

Crowding the deck, while holds the ship her way,

The crew all view the sea in blank dismay

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None speak-none move-while through the troubled air

The hoarse blast brings the wailing of despair,
And peal on peal o'er ocean's burning bed
Commingling roll, and shake the cavern'd dead.

X.

While round our hull the waves conflicting rise, 455
The timoneer the wary chieftain eyes,

And as beneath his hand the axle glows,
Port! he exclaims-or, Steady as she goes!
And oft the binnacle attracts his sight,

(Whose pois'd lamp o'er the compass throws its light,)*

There to consult the card whose mystic pow'r,
To arctic regions points in every hour.

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* The ship's compass is kept in a wooden case called the binnacle, which at night is lighted by a vibrating lamp; and being placed before the helm, the helmsman in the darkest weather is enabled to steer his course. A French poet of the twelfth century had seen it used in the night:

Quand le nuit est obscure et brune,
Qu'on ne voit etoile, ne lune,
Lors font à l'aiguille illumer,
Puis ne peuvent ils s'égarer.

XI.

Now sudden to the crew he calls aloud,

With warning voice, Grasp each a weather shroud!
Oh! may our plank repel yon whelming wave, 465
Whose yawning hollow seems a coming grave!
He said-an Alpine mountain full in height,
Foaming in wrath, and terrible in might,

It strikes our deck-which-from the ponderous blow,
Severs like polar ice when the thaw breezes blow.

XII.

As broke the sea o'erhead, I sought a shroud,
Amidst the seamen mingling clamours loud,
While at our feet the flood with horrid roar,
Booms, hatches, cordage, in its torrent bore.
When Talbot thus :-(who o'er the rushing tide 495
A ratlin grasp'd, and held in gallant pride)
This wave escap'd-the visionary loom
Dissolves-no more prophetic of my doom.

XIII.

While o'er our deck the boiling billows glow,

Curl white above, and darkly roll below,

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The young Lieutenants, reckless of the surge,
Seek the chain-pumps, and through the torrent urge,
The deep well sound, the clanking pump-brakes ply,
And look around them with a seaman's eye.
Hampden and Randolph in the waist appear,
And swell the shout the laggard heart to cheer—
So the bright stars that gild Orion's form,
Shine through the cloudy horrors of the storm.

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XIV.

But, lo! from either hatch, a startled crowd
Of men and women, rush with outcries loud- 490
Pilgrims-who doom'd on foreign shores to roam,
Were now returning to their hearths and home.
Wild with affright along the deck they pour,

Spread wide their palms, and kneeling, heav'n

implore,

Or raving call-they all their wealth would give, 495
For one more day, one hour on shore to live!

Then as the watery mountains whelm our deck,
A baseless station, and a floating wreck,

From the mix'd throng is heard young childhood's shriek,

And the dread father's lamentation deep,

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Piercing the gloom-while the poor female's fears Are mute-or only shewn in silent tears.

XV.

While o'er our deck billows on billows roll,

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A stronger tide of passion sways the soul-
The panick throng more bitterly bewail-
When Hampden's mutter'd curse their ears assail :
A sailor long my lot has been to roam

In ship and schooner o'er the ocean's foam,
But ne'er till now these eyes beheld around,
Such waters deluge, and such billows bound:
Columbus well a farewell scroll might write,
Kept he but watch with us on deck to night.*
Surely some Jonah in our ship sojourns,
Who now his unwhipt crimes in horror mourns,
Grows pale with ev'ry murmur of the skies,

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And beats his breast at ev'ry flash that flies:

Only doth this alternative remain

To bring the blessings of a calm again—
Let overboard the passenger be cast,

His sins atone, and pacify the blast.

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At this some shook for fear-the more devout
Arose and bless'd themselves from head to foot-

* When Columbus was in hourly expectation that his ship would founder, he wrote an account of his discoveries on a skin of parchment, and having wrapped it in a piece of ceer-cloth, enclosed it in a cask, and turned it a drift in the sea.

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