Classic Poem

That little pinnace, which you see,
Was once the glory of the sea;
That little bark, my friends, has vied
With ev'ry bark that cleaves the tide;
Whether by nimble oars convey'd,
Whether by swelling canvas sped:
This Adria's threatning shore, it says,
Denies not, nor the Cyclades,
Fam'd Rhodes, cold Thracia's horrid sea,
Propontis, nor the Euxine bay,
Along whose angry coast once stood
That very bark, a verdant wood,
Soft breathing from Cytorus' steep
Its leafy murmurs to the deep.
It says, Amastris, Pontic town!
That you these well-known truths will own;
And you, Cytorus, fam'd afar
For the green woods of box you bear:
Says, that you nurs'd its masts so fair,
And saw their green tops wave in air;
Saw it, beside your friendly shores,
First dare to dip its little oars;
Whence ploughing its tempestuous way,
It brought me safe thro' many a sea;
Alike, if driv'n by side-long gales,
Or fav'ring Jove swell'd full the sails:
And tho' no guardian god it pray'd,
Nor e'er one vow distressful made;
Yet, ocean's utmost billows past,
It reach'd this limpid lake at last.
Such were its toils in days of yore,
But here laid up it rests secure;
And waxing old, Twin-brothers, now
It dedicates itself to you.