Dark clouds incumbent on their wings appear:
Ahead they see the consecrated grove
Of Cyprus, sacred once to Cretan Jove.
The ship beneath her lofty pressure reels,
And to the freshening gale still deeper heels.
But now, beneath the lofty vessel’s stern,
A shoal of sportive dolphins they discern
Beaming from burnished scales refulgent rays,
Till all the glowing ocean seems to blaze:
In curling wreaths they wanton on the tide,