Classic Poem

No other passage? what? no way but this
Can bring my Pilgrim soul to rest, and bliss?
Proud Seas in Gyant waves 'gainst Heaven rise,
And casting mounts, fight with loud-thundring Skies,
Skies charge their double Cannons, and let fly
Their fires, and bullets; waters hizz, and fry.
How shall my tir'd Bark climb those mounts? how shall
It fall, and not than hell much deeper fall?
How shall a Potsheard stand one Volly? how
Shall glass cut through such storms, with brittle prow?
Were sails as wings to mount me o're those hills;
Who could secure me in those lesser rills?
Where Sirens fill the ear, and eye with wonder:
I more fear calm than storms, more songs than thunder.
Lend to the Latine Siren eyes, and ears,
Her face will seem an Angel, voice the Spheres.
The Belgian melts the soul with sugred strains,
Drops Wine, and loosness into swilling veins.
A third Gold, Plenty, Wealth, abundance sings:
And binds the captive ear with silver strings.
A fourth guilds all her notes with Thrones, and Crowns,
So Heav'n in earth, glory in honour drowns.
The last powrs honey from her pleasant Hive,
So stings, and kills, and buries men alive.
Lord steer my Bark: draw thou mine eye, and ear
From those vain frights, thy Word, and thee to fear.
Lord tune my heart to hear (in Saintly throngs)
More musick in thy thunders, than their songs.
Make me to think in all these storms, and charms,
In Sirens notes, and thundring Worlds alarms,
Thy presence is my guard, my Port, thy Bed and arms.