Horace, creator; Conington, John, 1825-1869, editor

  • O luckless bark! new waves will force you back
  • To 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 born
  • Of noble forest breed,
  • You boast your name and lineage—madly blind
  • Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?
  • Beware! or else the wind
  • Makes 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 shine
  • The thick-sown Cyclades!