Classic Poem

O ship, fresh waves will bear thee out again
To sea. Bestir thee! Run to harbour ere
They come! Look how thine oarsmen slain
Have left thy side all bare,

How the swift gale thy mast hath sorely hurt,
How groan thy yards; and how thy hull, unless
By coil of cable it be girt,
Scarce can endure the stress

Of waves o'ermastering force. Thy sails are torn.
From shattered gods no succour canst thou claim.
What though in Pontic pine-wood born
High lineage and name

Thou idly vaunt; in painted poop is found
No cure for sailors' fears. O! if indeed
Sport for the winds thou be not bound
To make, my warning heed.

Thou, for whom late I suffered anguish keen,
And still am worn with care and yearning, shun
The perilous waters that between
The glittering Cyclads run.