The rattling cordage whirls, the sail-yards strain,
The winding pipe re-echoes o'er the main:
Firm in their stations, ply th' obedient crowd,
Trim the directing lines, and strain the shroud;
Tug at the beating sheets with sinew'd force,
And give the vast machine its steady course.
Now, all that meets the vainly straining eye,
Is boundless ocean and unmeasur'd sky.
Unless perchance, beyond the wat'ry trace,
Iberia's purple hills th' horizon grace,