To shun that harbourless and hollow coast
From Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],
Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.
But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,
In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:
And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs
Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight
Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws
Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship
Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent