O ship! new billows sweep thee out Seaward. What wilt thou? hold the port, be stout! Seest not thy mast How rent by stiff south-western blast,Thy side, of rowers how forlorn? Thine hull, with groaning yards, with rigging torn, Can ill sustain The fierce and ever fiercer main;Thy gods, no more than sails entire, From whom yet once thy need might aid require. O Pontic pine, The first of woodland stock is thine,Yet race and name are but as dust. Not painted sterns give storm-tost seamen trust Unless thou dare To be the sport of storms, beware.Of old at best a weary weight, A yearning care and constant strain of late, O shun the seas That gird those glittering Cyclades.
