Struck the pale helmsman with eternal night:
Rodmond, who heard a piteous groan behind,
Touched with compassion gazed upon the blind;
And, while around his sad companions crowd,
He guides th’ unhappy victim to the shroud:
‘Hie thee aloft, my gallant friend!’ he cries;
‘Thy only succour on the mast relies.’
The helm, bereft of half its vital force,
Now scarce subdued the wild unbridled course;
Quick to th’ abandoned wheel Arion came,