And forward hurrying with impetuous haste, Borne on the tempest's wings the isle she past: With longing eyes, and agony of mind, 520 The sailors view this refuge left behind; Happy to bribe with India's richest ore A safe accession to that barren shore. When in the dark Peruvian mine confined, Lost to the cheerful commerce of mankind, The groaning captive wastes his life away, For ever exiled from the realms of day, Not half such pangs his bosom agonize When up to distant light he rolls his eyes! Where the broad sun, in his diurnal way 530 Imparts to all beside his vivid ray; While, all forlorn, the victim pines in vain For scenes he never shall possess again. V. But now Athenian mountains they descry, And o'er the surge Colonna frowns on high; Where marble columns, long by time defaced, Moss-cover'd on the lofty Cape are placed: There rear'd by fair devotion to sustain, In elder times, Tritonia's sacred fane; The circling beach in murderous form appears, 540 Decisive goal of all their hopes and fears: The seamen now in wild amazement see The scene of ruin rise beneath their lee; Swift from their minds elapsed all dangers past, As dumb with terror, they behold the last. And now, while wing'd with ruin from on high, Through the rent cloud the ragged lightnings fly, A flash, quick glancing on the nerves of light, Struck the pale helmsman with eternal night: Rodmond, who heard a piteous groan behind, 550 Touch'd with compassion, gazed upon the blind; And, while around his sad companions crowd, He guides the unhappy victim to the shroud: "Hie thee aloft, my gallant friend!" he cries; "Thy only succour on the mast relies." The helm, bereft of half its vital force, Now scarce subdued the wild unbridled course; Quick to the abandon'd wheel Arion came, The ship's tempestuous sallies to reclaim: The vessel, while the dread event draws nigh, 560 Seems more impatient o'er the waves to fly; Fate spurs her on!--Thus, issuing from afar, Advances to the sun some blazing star, And, as it feels attraction's kindling force, Springs onward with accelerated course. The moment fraught with fate approaches fast! While thronging sailors climb each quivering mast, The ship no longer now must stem the land, And, Hard a starboard! is the last command: While every suppliant voice to Heaven applies, 570 The prow, swift wheeling, to the westward flies; Twelve sailors, on the fore-mast who depend, High on the platform of the top ascend-- Fatal retreat! for, while the plunging prow Immerges headlong in the wave below,