On thy supreme assistance we rely; Thy mercy supplicate, if doomed to die! Perhaps this storm is sent with healing breath From neighb’ring shores to scourge disease and death: ’Tis ours on thine unerring laws to trust, With thee, great Lord! ‘whatever is, is just.’” He said: and, with consenting reverence fraught, The sailors joined his prayer in silent thought: His intellectual eye, serenely bright, Saw distant objects with prophetic light— Thus in a land, that lasting wars oppress, That groans beneath misfortune and distress; Whose wealth to conquering armies falls a prey, Till all her vigour, pride, and fame decay; Some bold sagacious statesman, from the helm, Sees desolation gathering o’er his realm; He darts around his penetrating eyes, Where dangers grow, and hostile unions rise; With deep attention marks th’ invading foe, Eludes their wiles and frustrates every blow, Tries his last art the tottering state to save, Or in its ruins find a glorious grave. Still in the yawning trough the vessel reels, Ingulphed beneath two fluctuating hills; On either side they rise, tremendous scene! A long dark melancholy vale between: The balanced ship now forward, now behind, } Still felt th’ impression of the waves and wind, } And to the right and left by turns inclin’d; } But Albert from behind the balance drew, And on the prow its double efforts threw. The order now was given to bear away! The order given, the timoneers obey: Both stay-sails sheets to mid-ships were conveyed, And round the foremast on each side belayed; Thus ready, to the halyards they apply, They hoist! away the flitting ruins fly: Yet Albert new resources still prepares, Conceals his grief, and doubles all his cares.— “Away there! lower the mizen-yard on deck,” He calls, “and brace the foremast yards aback!” His great example every bosom fires, New life enkindles, and new hope inspires. While to the helm unfaithful still she lies, One desperate remedy at last he tries— “Haste! with your weapons cut the shrouds and stay, And hew at once the mizen-mast away!” He said: to cut the girding stay they run, Soon on each side the severed shrouds are gone: Fast by the fated pine bold Rodmond stands, Th’ impatient axe hung gleaming in his hands; Brandished on high, it fell with dreadful sound, The tall mast groaning felt the deadly wound; Deep gashed beneath, the tottering structure rings, And crashing, thundering, o’er the quarter swings: Thus, when some limb, convulsed with pangs of death, Imbibes the gangrene’s pestilential breath, Th’ experienced artist from the blood betrays The latent venom, or its course delays; But if th’ infection triumphs o’er his art, Tainting the vital stream that warms the heart,