Till melting into air—the object lost—
And duty sternly calling to his post,
'Twixt him and joy th' eternal curtain's drawn,
No more of bliss to know returning dawn.
Swift from the breezy north, assisting gales
Impel the course, and swell the yielding sails.
Before the sightless breeze the vessel flies,
Clambers the mountain sea, and braves the skies;
Or thund'ring down the depths that foam below,
Ploughs up the surging brine with dashing prow.