O LUCKLESS bark! new waves will force you back To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!
E'en now, a helpless wrack, You drift, despoil'd of oars;
The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;
Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,
Till lash'd with cables round, A more imperious main.
Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;
- No
- gods are left to pray to in fresh need. A pine of Pontus born
Of noble forest breed,
You boast your name and lineage--madly blind!
Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?
Beware! or else the wind
Makes you its mock and jeer.Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,
And still I love you, still am ill at ease.
O, shun the sea, where shine The thick-sown Cyclades!