She loosens, parts, and spreads in ruin o’er the tide.
Oh, were it mine with sacred Maro’s art
To wake to sympathy the feeling heart,
Like him, the smooth and mournful verse to dress
In all the pomp of exquisite distress;
Then, too severely taught by cruel fate,
To share in all the perils I relate,
Then might I, with unrivalled strains, deplore
Th’ impervious horrors of a leeward shore.
As o’er the surf the bending mainmast hung,