The sheet and weather-brace they now stand by, The lee clue-garnet, and the bunt-lines ply; Then, all prepared, ‘Let go the sheet!’ he cries— Loud rattling, jarring, through the blocks it flies! Shivering at first, till by the blast impelled, High o’er the lee yard-arm the canvass swelled; By spilling lines embraced, with brails confined, It lies at length unshaken by the wind. The fore-sail then secured with equal care, Again to reef the mainsail they repair; While some above the yard o’er-haul the tye, Below, the down-haul tackle others ply; Jears, lifts and brails, a seaman each attends, And down the mast its mighty yard descends: When lowered sufficient they securely brace, And fix the rolling tackle in its place; The reef-lines and their earings now prepared, Mounting on pliant shrouds they man the yard: Far on the extremes appear two able hands, For no inferior skill this task demands. To windward, foremost, young Arion strides, The lee yard-arm the gallant boatswain rides: Each earing to its cringle first they bend, The reef-band then along the yard extend; The circling earings round th’ extremes entwin’d, By outer and by inner turns they bind; The reef-lines next from hand to hand received, Through eyelet-holes and roban-legs were reeved; The folding reefs in plaits inrolled they lay, Extend the worming lines, and ends belay. Hadst thou, Arion! held the leeward post While on the yard by mountain billows tost, Perhaps Oblivion o’er our tragic tale Had then for ever drawn her dusky veil; But ruling Heaven prolonged thy vital date, Severer ills to suffer, and relate. For, while aloft the order those attend To furl the mainsail, or on deck descend; A sea, upsurging with stupendous roll, To instant ruin seems to doom the whole: ‘O friends, secure your hold!’ Arion cries— It comes all dreadful! down the vessel lies Half buried sideways; while, beneath it tost, Four seamen off the lee yard-arm are lost: Torn with resistless fury from their hold, In vain their struggling arms the yard enfold; In vain to grapple flying ropes they try, The ropes, alas! a solid gripe deny: Prone on the midnight surge with panting breath They cry for aid, and long contend with Death; High o’er their heads the rolling billows sweep, And down they sink in everlasting sleep. Bereft of power to help, their comrades see The wretched victims die beneath the lee, With fruitless sorrow their lost state bemoan, Perhaps a fatal prelude to their own. In dark suspense on deck the pilots stand, Nor can determine on the next command: Though still they knew the vessel’s armed side Impenetrable to the clasping tide; Though still the waters by no secret wound A passage to her deep recesses found;