The masts, about whose tops the whirlwinds sing,
With long vibration round her axle swing.
To guide her wayward course amid the gloom,
The watchful pilots different posts assume:
Albert and Rodmond on the poop appear,
There to direct each guiding timoneer;
While at the bow the watch Arion keeps,
To shun what cruisers wander o’er the deeps:
Where’er he moves Palemon still attends,
As if on him his only hope depends;