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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!

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load focus Notes (Paul Shorey, 1910)
load focus Latin (Paul Shorey, Gordon Lang, Paul Shorey and Gordon J. Laing, 1919)
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Cyclades (Greece) (1)

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