The dashing of waves, when the deadly tumult
Crowds to the coast. Of cruel strife
The sailors are certain if the sea drive their craft
30 With its terrified guests on the grim rolling tide;
They are sure that the ship will be shorn of its power,
Be deprived of its rule, and will ride foam-covered
On the ridge of the waves. Then ariseth a panic,
Fear among folk of the force that commands me,
35 Strong on my storm-track. Who shall still that power?
At times I drive through the dark wave-vessels