And, as the mortal crime his fingers trace,
Veils, with his snowy vest, his crimson'd face.
The gloomy ship, in sable terror drest
Receives the burthen of the wretched guest;
Torn as his bosom is, still wonder glows
As on the vast machine attention grows.
Wonder, commix'd with anguish, shakes his frame,
At the strange sight his language cannot name.
Ropes, tackles, spars and ponderous engines seem
As racking instruments, prepar'd for him: