Classic Poem

The shyp that late I sawe beare loftie sayle,
Deepe lanched in the waues of waters wilde:
Whose courage stowte I deemde no storme might quayle,
When I her viewde so fast and fyrmely fielde.
With tempest tost, is forst now sayle to streeke,
And in her prime doth houering harbour seeke.