Classic Poem

So may the goddess of the Cyprian Isle,
The shining Twins—the sailor's constant friends—
And great Eolus, father of the winds—
Except Iapyx, holding all in check—
Guide thee, O Ship! unto whose faithful care
Is Virgil given (him thou dost owe to us),
That thou mayst land him safe on Attic shores
And thus preserve him who is half my soul.
Sure oak and triple brass his breast had girt,
Who first entrusted to the raging sea
His fragile bark; whose heart quailed not before
The Northern blasts that fierce contention hold
With boisterous winds that blow from Afric's shores;
Nor mourning Hyades; nor South-wind's rage;
No greater power is there than his to lash
The Adriatic's billows into foam,
Or, if he will, to lull its waves to rest.
What coming guise of death could him appall
Who saw, unmoved, the monsters of the deep,
The swelling main, or those ill-fated rocks
That skirt Acroceraunia's rugged coast?
In vain a prudent god the land divides
By Ocean's broad and all-estranging depths
If impious ships may cross forbidden gulfs.
The human race, audacious in desire,
Will, heedless, rush in interdicted ways.
The bold Prometheus to the world brought down
The fire of heaven by a fatal fraud:
Consumption followed, and a direful train
Of new diseases brooded o'er the earth:
Then lingering Death, that erstwhile slowly moved,
His footsteps quickened; Dædalus sought to pierce
The vacant air with wings not given to man:
Herculean labor broke through Acheron.
No task too arduous is for mortal aim;
Our folly leads us to essay ev'n heaven.
Nor, through our constant wickedness, may Jove's
Avenging thunderbolts be laid aside.