Whether on monkish frock as safe rode he,
As night-hags skim in sieves o’er Norway’s sea;
Or like Arion plough’d the wat’ry plain,
Horsed on some monster of the astonish’d main,
Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow—
St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how.
And now again the saint his priest survey’d,
From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid;
Resolved for Irza’s sake to brave the worst
Which fate could offer on that isle accurst.