YET on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride, O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there Rest thee: for lo! thy side Is oarless all and bare, And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast, And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost, Yield must thy keel at last On tyrannous sea-waves tossed Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine, Nor gods, to hear thee when thy need is sorest: -- True, thou -- a Pontic pine, Child of a stately forest -- Boast'st rank and empty name: but little trust The frightened seamen in a painted stern. Stay -- or be mocked thou must By every wind in turn. Flee -- what of late sore burden was to me, Now a sad memory and a bitter pain, -- Those shining Cyclads flee, That stud the far-off main. |