Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;No gods are left to pray to in fresh need.A pine of Pontus bornOf noble forest breed,You boast your name and lineage—madly blindCan painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?Beware! or else the windMakes you its mock and jeer.Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,And still I love you, still am ill at ease.O, shun the sea, where shineThe thick-sown Cyclades!When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deepHis Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,That all to Fate might hark,