Still Rome and Greece record his endless fame, And hence yon mountain yet retains his name. But see! in confluence borne before the blast, Clouds rolled on clouds the dusky noon o’ercast: The blackening ocean curls, the winds arise, And the dark scud in swift succession flies. While the swoln canvass bends the masts on high, Low in the wave the leeward cannon lie. The master calls, to give the ship relief, ‘The topsails lower, and form a single reef!’ Each lofty yard with slackened cordage reels; Rattle the creaking blocks and ringing wheels. Down the tall masts the topsails sink amain, Are manned and reefed, then hoisted up again. More distant grew receding Candia’s shore, And southward of the west Cape Spado bore. Four hours the sun his high meridian throne Had left, and o’er the Atlantic regions shone; Still blacker clouds, that all the skies invade, Draw o’er his sullied orb a dismal shade; A lowering squall obscures the southern sky, Before whose sweeping breath the waters fly; Its weight the top-sails can no more sustain— ‘Reef top-sails, reef!’ the master calls again. The halyards and top bow-lines soon are gone, The clue-lines and reef-tackles next they run; The shivering sails descend; the yards are square; Then quick aloft the ready crew repair; The weather-earings and the lee they past, The reefs enrolled, and every point made fast. Their task above thus finished, they descend, And vigilant th’ approaching squall attend; It comes resistless! and with foaming sweep Upturns the whitening surface of the deep; In such a tempest, borne to deeds of death, The wayward sisters scour the blasted heath. 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 quick!’ the master cries, ‘Man the clue-garnets! 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 th’ oppressive strain, Low bending, as if ne’er to rise again. ‘Bear up the helm a-weather!’ 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 restrained, the bellying sail Spreads a broad concave to the sweeping gale. While o’er the foam the ship impetuous flies, The helm th’ attentive timoneer applies: As in pursuit along th’ aërial way With ardent eye the falcon marks his prey. Each motion watches of the doubtful chace, Obliquely wheeling through the fluid space; So, governed by the steersman’s glowing hands, The regent helm her motion still commands. But now, the transient squall to leeward past,