Classic Poem

New floods of strife that swell the main,
O ship, shall bring thee out again;
O wherefore venture? 'tis your fort
To keep your station in the port.
Do not you see your sides bereft,
Till not a single oar is left,
And, wounded by the rapid blast,
Groan the crack'd sail-yards and the mast?
Nor are there scarcely farther hopes,
That your old keel, despoil'd of ropes,
Can longer hold it out to brave
The fury of th'impetuous wave.
Thy canvas is no longer tight,
Nor Gods to sue in evil plight,
Tho' once a Pontic pine you stood,
And daughter of a noble wood,
May'st boast a vain descent and form —
The tim'rous seaman in a storm
Trusts not in painted planks — be warn'd,
Lest by the hissing winds you're scorn'd.
Late my vexation and my care,
Still my desire and constant pray'r,
Yet may'st thou from those isles be free
That glister in th'Ionian sea.