High o’er their heads the rolling billows sweep,
And down they sink in everlasting sleep.
Bereft of power to help, their comrades see
The wretched victims die beneath the lee,
With fruitless sorrow their lost state bemoan,
Perhaps a fatal prelude to their own.
In dark suspense on deck the pilots stand,
Nor can determine on the next command:
Though still they knew the vessel’s armed side
Impenetrable to the clasping tide;