Classic Poem

ODE 14

T O A S HIP

Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there
Rest thee: for lo! thy side
Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On tyrannous sea-waves tossed.

Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,
Nor gods, to hear thee when thy need is sorest: —
True, thou — a Pontic pine,
Child of a stately forest —

Boast'st rank and empty name: but little trust
The frightened seamen in a painted stern
Stay — or be mocked thou must
By every wind in turn.

Flee — what of late sore burden was to me,
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain, —
Those shining Cyclads flee,
That stud the far-off main.