Classic Poem

The ship ill-omen'd puts to sea,
With foetid Maevius 'mongst the crew;
Good blust'ring south remember me,
And with rough waves her course pursue.
And fore and aft her sides assail,
Let east, the wind of black despair,
With floods turn'd upside down prevail,
And oars and ropes in pieces tear.
Let north too rage, from mountains high,
As when the trembling oaks are rent;
Nor friendly star a ray supply,
Upon Orion's dread descent.
No gentler breeze their fleet convoy,
Than what the conq'ring Grecians knew,
When Pallas turn'd her rage from Troy
On Ajax, as the ruffian's due.
O how your sailors toil and curse,
What woeful paleness in your cheeks;
What pray'rs to Jupiter averse,
And what extreme unmanly shrieks.
When roaring to the dark south-west,
The shallows of th'Ionian bay
Shall leave your mastless deck distress'd,
And break your very keel away.
But if, upon the winding shore,
Your foulness shall the gulls delight;
With kid and lamb I will adore
The tempests, as denouncing right.