XXXIV.

There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms As rum and true religion: thus it was, Some plundered, some drank spirits, some sung psalms, The high wind made the treble, and as bass The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured the qualms Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, Clamoured in chorus to the roaring Ocean.