OD. i. 14.
Yet on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,
O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there
Rest thee: for lo! thy side
Is oarless all and bare,
And the swift south-west wind hath maimed thy mast,
And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,
Yield must thy keel at last
On pitiless sea-waves tossed
Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,
Nor gods, to hear thee now, when need is sorest:-
Though thou - a Pontic pine,
Child of a stately forest, -
Boastest high name and empty pedigree,
Pale seamen little trust the gaudy sail:
Stay, unless doomed to be
The plaything of the gale.
Flee - what of late sore burden was to me,
Now a sad memory and a bitter pain, -
Those shining Cyclads flee
That stud the far-off main.