"It steads not to strike sail, nor lash the mast, Lowered on the gang-board, nor our castles fell;
The bark, in our despite, is hurried fast Towards the pointed rocks about Rochelle:
Save He, above, assist us at the last, The cruel storm will us ashore impel;
Driven thither by ill wind with mightier speed Than ever bow-string gave to whistling reed.
