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, The prow, swift wheeling, to the westward flies; Twelve sailors, on the foremast who depend, High on the platform of the top ascend, Fatal retreat! for, while the plunging prow Immerges headlong in the wave below, Down prest by watery weight the bowsprit bends, And from above the stem deep-crashing rends: Beneath her bow the floating ruins lie; The foremast totters, unsustained on high; And now the ship, forelifted by the sea, Hurls the tall fabric backward o’er her lee; While, in the general wreck, the faithful stay Drags the main topmast by the cap away: Flung from the mast, the seamen strive in vain, Through hostile floods, their vessel to regain; Weak Hope, alas! they buffet long the wave, And grasp at life though sinking in the grave; Till all exhausted, and bereft of strength, O’erpowered they yield to cruel fate at length The burying waters close around their head, They sink! for ever numbered with the dead. Those who remain the weather shrouds embrace, Nor longer mourn their lost companions’ case; Transfixt with terror at th’ approaching doom, Self pity in their breasts alone has room: Albert, and Rodmond, and Palemon, near With young Arion, on the mast appear; E’en they, amid th’ unspeakable distress, In every look distracting thoughts confess, In every vein the refluent blood congeals, And every bosom mortal terror feels; Begirt with all the horrors of the main They viewed th’ adjacent shore, but viewed in vain: Such torments in the drear abodes of hell, Where sad despair laments with rueful yell, Such torments agonize the damned breast, That sees remote the mansions of the blest. It comes! the dire Catastrophe draws near, Lashed furious on by destiny severe: The ship hangs hovering on the verge of death, Hell yawns, rocks rise, and breakers roar beneath! O yet confirm my heart, ye powers above! This last tremendous shock of fate to prove; The tottering frame of reason yet sustain, Nor let this total havoc whirl my brain: Since I, all trembling in extreme distress, Must still the horrible result express. In vain, alas! the sacred shades of yore Would arm the mind with philosophic lore; In vain they’d teach us, at the latest breath To smile serene amid the pangs of death: Immortal Zeno’s self would trembling see Inexorable fate beneath the lee; And Epictetus at the sight, in vain Attempt his stoic firmness to retain; Had Socrates, for godlike virtue famed,