CXXXIX A fruitful rill, by limpid fountain fed, Waters, all round about, the fertile space. The land of Venus truly may be said That passing joyous and delightful place: For every maid and wife, who there is bred, Is through the world beside, unmatched in grace: And Venus wills, till their last hour be tolled, That Love should warm their bosoms, young and old. CXL 'Twas here they heard the same which they before Of the orc and of Lucina, erst had heard In Syria; how she to return once more In Nicosia, to her lord prepared. Thence (a fair wind now blowing from the shore) His bark for sea the ready Patron cleared, Hawled up his anchor, westward turned the head Of the good ship, and all his canvas spread. CXLI To the north wind, which blew upon their right, Stretching to seaward, they their sails untie: When lo! a south-south-wester, which seemed light, In the beginning, while the sun was high, And afterwards increased in force t'wards night, Raised up the sea against them mountains high; With such dread flashes, and loud peals of thunder, As Heaven, to swallow all in fire, would sunder. CXLII The clouds their gloomy veil above them strain, Nor suffer sun or star to cheer the view. Above the welkin roared, beneath the main; On every side the wind and tempest grew; Which, with sharp piercing cold and blinding rain, Afflicted sore the miserable crew. While aye descending night, with deeper shade, The vext and fearful billows overlayed. CXLIII The sailors, in this war of wind and flood, Were prompt to manifest their vaunted art. One blowing through the shrilling whistle stood, And with the signal taught the rest their part. One clears the best bower anchor: one is good To lower, this other to hawl home or start The braces; one from deck the lumber cast, And this secured the tiller, that the mast. CXLIV The cruel wind increased throughout the night, Which grew more dismal and more dark than hell. The wary Patron stood to sea outright, Where he believed less broken was the swell; And turned his prow to meet, with ready sleight, The buffets of the dreadful waves which fell; Never without some hope, that at day-break The storm might lull, or else its fury slake. CXLV It lulls not, nor its fury slakes, but grown Wilder, shows worse by day, -- if this be day, Which but by reckoning of the hours is known, And not by any cheering light or ray. Now, with more fear (his weaker hope o'erthrown). The sorrowing Patron to the wind gives way, He veers his barque before the cruel gale, And scowers the foaming sea with humble sail.