O luckless bark! new waves will force you backTo sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!E'en now, a helpless wrack,You drift, despoil'd of oars;The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,Till lash'd with cables round,A more imperious main.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!