Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,
When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,
That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,
Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye
With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].
Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm
Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,
She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,
To gain the port within it, or at worst