II. Awhile the mast, in ruins dragged behind,
Balanced th’ impression of the helm and wind;
The wounded serpent, agonized with pain,
Thus trails his mangled volume on the plain:
But now, the wreck dissevered from the rear,
The long reluctant prow began to veer;
While round before th’ enlarging wind it falls,
“Square fore and aft the yards,” the master calls:
“You timoneers her motion still attend,
For on your steerage all our lives depend: