Surrounding evils yet they ponder o’er, A storm, a dangerous sea, and leeward shore! “Should they, though reefed, again their sails extend, Again in shivering streamers they may rend; Or should they stand, beneath th’ oppressive strain The down-pressed ship may never rise again; Too late to weather now Morea’s land, And drifting fast on Athens’ rocky strand.” Thus they lament the consequence severe, Where perils unallayed by Hope appear: Long pondering in their minds each feared event, At last to furl the courses they consent; That done, to reef the mizen next agree, And try beneath it sidelong in the sea. Now down the mast the yard they lower away, Then jears and topping-lift secure belay; The head, with doubling canvass fenced around, In balance near the lofty peak they bound: The reef enwrapped, th’ inserting knittles tied, The halyards throt and peak are next applied— The order given, the yard aloft they swayed, The brails relaxed, th’ extended sheet belayed; The helm its post forsook, and, lashed a-lee, Inclined the wayward prow to front the sea. IV. When sacred Orpheus on the Stygian coast, With notes divine deplored his consort lost; Though round him perils grew in fell array, And fates and furies stood to bar his way; Not more adventurous was th’ attempt, to move Th’ infernal powers with strains of heavenly love, Than mine, in ornamental verse to dress The harshest sounds that terms of art express: Such arduous toil sage Dædalus endured, In mazes, self-invented, long immured, Till genius her superior aid bestowed, To guide him through that intricate abode— Thus, long imprisoned in a rugged way Where Phœbus’ daughters never aimed to stray, The Muse, that tuned to barbarous sounds her string, Now spreads, like Dædalus, a bolder wing; The verse begins in softer strains to flow, Replete with sad variety of woe. As yet, amid this elemental war, Where Desolation in his gloomy car Triumphant rages round the starless void, And Fate on every billow seems to ride; Nor toil, nor hazard, nor distress appear To sink the seamen with unmanly fear: Though their firm hearts no pageant honour boast, They scorn the wretch that trembles at his post; Who from the face of danger strives to turn, Indignant from the social hour they spurn; Though now full oft they felt the raging tide In proud rebellion climb the vessel’s side; Though every rising wave more dreadful grows, And in succession dire the deck o’erflows; No future ills unknown their souls appal, They know no danger, or they scorn it all: But e’en the generous spirits of the brave, Subdued by toil, a friendly respite crave; They, with severe fatigue alone opprest, Would fain indulge an interval of rest. Far other cares the Master’s mind employ,