’Tween-decks, are now in dinner-trim,
The frugal meal is well pursued;
And not a cloud had yet made dim
The deck-light pane, above them view’d.
Sol now hath reach’d his highest point,
The captain marks its altitude;
The beauteous orb’s full golden front
Gives to the seaman—latitude.
The chart is traced, the captain smiles;
The rippling wavelets fly apace;