Loud fluttering, imitates the thunder’s roar:
The ship still labours in th’ oppressive strain,
Low bending, as if ne’er to rise again.
‘Bear up the helm a-weather!’ Rodmond cries;
Swift at the word the helm a-weather flies;
She feels its guiding power, and veers apace,
And now the fore-sail right athwart they brace:
With equal sheets restrained, the bellying sail
Spreads a broad concave to the sweeping gale.
While o’er the foam the ship impetuous flies,