This racer of the watry plain,
Cou'd once outstrip the fleetest sail;
With oary finns to swim the main,
Or wing'd with canvass, fly before the gale!

On Pontus streams she freely rides,
Whom roots once fasten'd to the shore;
And turn'd a tenant of the tides,
Reviews the mountains where she grew before:

Where once she stood a living shade,
And (veil'd in clouds) her head did rear,
Her verdant tresses round her play'd,
Sung to the wind, and danc'd in open air.

Of old, Cytorus top she crown'd;
And, at his bottom while she moves,
Renews acquaintance with the ground,
Her kindred trees, and her coeval groves.

Here, where she tempted first the tides,
And crept on unexperienc'd oars;
On bounding billows tost she rides,
Secure on surges, as of old on shoars.

Whether when hov'ring in the sky,
The wandring winds did loosely blow;
Or sweeping from all quarters fly,
When Jove abroad on all their wings would go.

At last she left the stormy seas,
But to no gods her vows did make,
Till now her vessel, laid at ease,
Sleeps on the bosom of the gentle lake.

Here her old age its rest obtains,
Secure from all the watry war;
And consecrates its last remains,
To thee, bright Castor, and thy Brother Star!